Daddy's Little Girls
by NotYourAverageNephilim
Summary: Here's the thing. My sisters and I aren't normal. We're not even technically related. Well...sort of. Until last year, I didn't even know either of them existed. We share a dad, but we are nothing alike. We only have two things in common: 1. Our dad is the ruler of the underworld 2. None of us should be alive [Multi-fandom Xover] [M for language] [collab. w/ andnowimdeadagain]
1. Chapter 1

**ONE**

Today is Nyx's day with Dad. Hades knows what they're up to. Get it? Hades...? Screw you, I'm funny.

Anyway, I'm sitting on one of the leather couches Dad loves so much, reading a book. Mother always chastised me for reading. It doesn't matter; she's gone.

Hazel sits across from me, writing a sickening love letter to her boyfriend, Frank, who's topside. When she finishes, she tosses it into the fireplace. It disappears into the green flames. I roll my eyes. Nyx and Hazel can't use phones, even here, at Dad's.

The door opens behind me and Nyx sulks in. I know what you're thinking, 'things went wrong with Dad.' Nah. Nyx is always sulking. I'm pretty sure she was _born_ with a scowl.

Then again, she was born over 100 years ago.

"Hey, Nyxie," I say, barely glancing up from my book.

"Don't call me that," she snaps.

"How'd it go?" Hazel asks.

"Usual," she mutters, flinging herself onto the couch next to Hazel. "Dad sends his regards."

I grunt. Dad avoids us whenever we're together. I would avoid my kids, too, if they gave me schizophrenia.

See, he's all three of our dads, but we're not actually–genetically–siblings.

Nyx is a child of Hades; she was born as Melanie Joy Lawless on January 1, 1903, before the Pact that banned any of the Big Three from having kids. When she was 14, Hades sent her to this place called the Lotus Casino, which is suspended in time. About 20 years later, when the Pact was made, he put his other two kids, Nico and Bianca DiAngelo, there too. Melanie, Nico, and Bianca were there for decades, never aging. Of course, they didn't know each other at the time. Melanie eventually got out–how, she won't tell–and changed her name to Nyx. Sometime after that, Hades got Nico and Bianca out too.

Hazel is more closely related to Nyx than I am to either of them; she's Pluto's daughter. You know, Hades' Roman personality? Hazel is also out of her time–we all are, really. Hazel actually died, about 70 years ago, trying to stop a big, bad giant from being reborn to destroy the world. He ended up rising anyway, last year, but whatever. You want the details? Ask Hazel. Nico found Hazel a few years ago in the underworld and snuck her back to the land of the living.

As for me, I was born in pre-revolutionary Russia–1889, to be exact–to a Jewish woman with a bad temper. I guess that's part of what attracted _my_ father–Lucifer.

Yeah sure. Run and scream from the terrible demon. I'm hell spawn. Whatever. I'm actually half-angel, if you want to get snippy.

Point is, Dad met my mother during one of his stints in the world as Lucifer and voilá...me. I had an older half-brother, Motel; he married and left. Good riddance. Mother named me Marcia. I changed it as soon as I could. That's about all you're gonna get about my past. Enjoy it.

Supposedly, the humans believe, when Dad fell from Heaven– _long_ before the Greeks came along–he was locked up in a cage at the bottom of Hell–deeper than Tartarus. They got it half right. Really, Michael and my other wonderful uncles cast him into Hell and trapped him inside his own mind. "The Pit" is nothing more than a mind prison. The Greeks discovered some of his residual power and named it Hades.

See, the thing about the imagination, if you believe hard enough, it comes true. So Dad got lumped in with the rest of the newly made Greek gods. He didn't complain. It gave him a personality so he could walk around again. Lucifer was still trapped inside his head, though.

Then the Romans came along and made him into Pluto. Suddenly, his mind was a hullabaloo of voices.

Lucifer fought to get out; he managed it a few times a century, including just before I was born. There was so much evil in the world during the time I lived that Dad was able to break out of his prison–but only for a day or two.

Remember when I said we shouldn't be alive? That's 'cause we all technically died.

For Hazel, as I said, she actually did. Nyx dies so many times she might as well be a zombie, but Hades brings her back every time anyway. Sometimes I think she dies just to get his attention. As for me, I never actually _died_ , but I'm not technically alive either.

One of the times Dad managed to slip Lucifer out of the Cage, when I was about 19, I paid him a visit. I chilled–or rather, boiled–in the underworld for a bit, putting up with Dad's constant shift of personalities. Eventually, he created some dumb-ass quest-thing for me to do for him and made me immortal as a reward. As Hades or Pluto, he'd never be able to pull that off, but as Lucifer, he's pretty unlimited in power, and since I'm already half-angel, it wasn't hard.

Well, if you call having your daughter steal another angel's grace, concoct a potion, and drink it, almost killing herself in the process, "easy."

Then, three years ago, these two bozos fully released him–nearly setting off the Apocalypse. They sent him back to the Pit–or so they thought. What they really did was send him into Tartarus–but his mind was still intact.

So now all three of his personalities can walk, talk, and shout. But the weird thing with the immortals, when they have multiple aspects, they tend to easily shift back and forth when influenced.

Hence Dad avoiding being near more than one of us girls.

Then, a couple months after Dad's return to Hell, there was almost another apocalypse–this time, not Dad's fault. I'm pretty sure Hazel and her friends wrote a book or two so I'm not going to get into that story.

That's when I met my sisters. They met through Nico, who called them both to the battle. I met them through Dad–all three of Dad. See, Dad called _me_ to the battle, not realizing all four of his kids would be in the same place; he almost had a mental breakdown. I got him back to his palace and then returned to meet my siblings–including Nico.

Since then, we've scheduled once-a-month Hell Weeks. Well...that's what _I_ call them. Basically we all get together in Dad's palace one week a month to get to know each other and spend time with Dad. We each get a day every week. The other four are spent terrorizing each other and the undead.

For the underworld, that's pretty fun.

Nico rarely attends.

Nyx whips out a pomegranate and bites into the tough skin. For some reason, she can eat underworld food, despite the fact that doing so _should_ trap her in Hell forever. Maybe it's because she's died over 300 times. "What's new with you?" She asks around a mouthful of juice and seeds. Hazel and I grimace. We were both raised by strict mothers with even stricter rules regarding manners.

Nyx was barely raised at all.

"I'm reading," I state plainly. "And Hazel just finished being mushy." Nyx's face contorts.

"Boys. Gross," she jokes. Despite her frivolity, I see a tiny spark of sadness in her eyes. Pluto's daughter and I are strikingly beautiful, while the children of Hades are dark and brooding. Nyx often finds it difficult to get a boy to look at her–unless it's in a scared, creeped, or suspicious way.

At least _her_ mother didn't try to marry her off to a 40-year-old butcher.

"What book are you reading, Jez?" Hazel asks me. Jezebel is the name I currently go by; I named myself after a biblical princess. Dad didn't find it funny.

I hold up the book for her to see. It's one of my dragon series.

" _Another_ dragon book, Jez?" Nyx groans. "Why are you so obsessed with them?"

I shrug. "Dad took me to Purgatory once to see them. I find them fascinating."

Hazel's eyes bug out of her head. She shakes her head, golden-brown curls dancing around her face like fire. "I'll never get over the idea that Purgatory exists. I wish I could see it."

"You wouldn't survive," I say plainly. "You think your current attraction level of monsters is bad? The beasties here on earth are bunny rabbits compared to Eve's lot. Mummy Monster doesn't fool around when it comes to her kids. Remember me telling you about the Leviathans?"

Hazel and Nyx shudder.

"Besides, Hades and Pluto can't enter Purgatory." I'm about to continue reading when there's a loud tapping on the door–the sound of bones on wood. "What?" Nyx shouts, at the same time I bellow, "Enter!" and Hazel calls, "Yes?" The door creaks open in that ominous way all the doors in the palace do. Standing behind it is one of the skeleton guards. His skull turns, his hollow eye sockets looking at each of us in turn, before landing on Nyx. His jaw moves, but no words come out. Instead, he clicks and grinds his teeth together; it is both a chilling and beautiful sound.

"What did he say?" I ask Nyx. She's the only one who understands the skeletons.

Nyx rolls her eyes. "Cerberus wants us to play with him again." I groan. I'm already on Hellhound-sitting duty for ruining Persephone's garden yesterday.

"You play with him, Nyxie," I say. "He likes you better anyway."

"He scares me," Hazel mutters.

"Ugh! Fine," Nyx stands up and stomps out of the room, nearly disassembling the skeleton guard in the process.

"Do you think she's mad?" Hazel asks, looking guilty.

"Nah," I say, flipping a page in my book. "She loves the slobbering goofball. She just won't be sappy in front of us."

"Why?"

I pause. "I don't know," I reply after a moment. "She doesn't talk about herself that much. Who knows what dark secrets lay in her past?" Hazel nods thoughtfully and I return my attention to my book, thinking bitterly of my _own_ dark memories.

A minute later, the fire makes a hissing noise, and then, with a loud _pop_ , a scroll shoots out of the flames, landing on the carpet between us. Hazel and I stare at it. The scroll is obviously paper, not animal skin or papyrus. A thin, purple ribbon is wrapped around the center, sealed with a still-cooling blob of wax. Stamped into the center are a crossed sword and torch. Hazel's eyes widen and she scoops the scroll up off the floor.

"I know this symbol," she gasps. "The message is from Reyna!"

"Your…er, leader, right?"

"Praetor," she corrects. She picks at the glob of wax and unwraps the scroll. "Hazel," she reads, "I know you are spending your monthly week at your father's palace, but I need you to return to Camp Jupiter. I need your expertise. We've gotten reports of strange men capturing and interrogating demigods. One of them was almost killed. Her report states that they thought she was a witch–" I take a sharp breath. Hazel trails off and looks up at me.

My book slips out of my hand and lands loudly on the floor. I barely notice. "Impossible," I breathe. "How could they possibly track demigods?"

"Who?" Hazel asks.

My voice shakes as I say, "The Winchesters."


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO**

"We have to hurry," I say, leaping off the couch.

"Ok," Hazel replies warily, "we'll go get Nyx and–"

"NO. There's no time!" I interrupt. I grip Hazel's shoulder and, before she has time to blink, we're standing next to a highway; it's night time.

Hazel collapses on the ground, wheezing. "That," she gasps, "was _worse_ than sailing." She looks like she's going to be sick.

"Come on," I pull her to her feet. "Which way?" She points a shaky finger at the space between the tunnels. Two teenagers, wearing purple T-Shirts and gold armor, stand on either side of a door. "Right." We wait until the road is clear, and dash across to the median.

One of the teenagers sees us and draws his sword. "Halt!" he cries, "Who goes there?"

"Hazel Levesque," Hazel calls back, "Fifth Cohort." She steps into the dim light. The guards see Hazel's face and stand at attention. They slam their fists on their breastplates.

"Forgive us, Hazel," the second one stammers, "we didn't see you." She is smaller than the boy; perhaps fourteen.

Hazel blushes. "Please, don't salute me. We need to get in to Camp; Reyna summoned us."

"And who is this?" the first asks, looking at me. I stayed in the shadows, but he can still tell I'm there.

"This is my, uh…sister," Hazel replies. "She's here to see Reyna, too."

"Is she one of us?" the girl asks, confused. "I thought you and Nico were–"

"I'm not a Roman," I say carefully. "But I am Hazel's sister. She didn't meet me until the battle with Gaea."

"Please, Kylee," Hazel asks the girl. "It's urgent."

Kylee nods and opens the door. Hazel and I walk down the narrow tunnel briskly. "Did they _really_ salute you?" I ask, barely holding back my laughter.

Hazel blushes again. "The Legionnaires act weird around _all_ of the Seven–you know, the ones of us from the last Great Prophecy? Let's…not talk about it."

We emerge from the tunnel into a valley; at the bottom of the hill, a river winds around a stone and marble city, like a capital G, sparkling in the light of the moon.

"The Little Tiber," Hazel says, leading me down the hill. "Reyna will be in the city proper. Come on." We forge a path down the slippery grass; it must have recently rained. We cross over the Little Tiber and make our way to the walled city. Hazel stops me outside the gate, by a large, white bust.

"Good evening, Terminus," Hazel says to the statue. Its eyes open and glare back.

"It _was_ ," the stone man snaps, "until _you_ showed up and ruined my sleep!"

"We're sorry," Hazel replies. "Reyna summoned us, we need to get into the city."

"Humph," the statue gripes. "The gates are closed. Come back in the morning."

"We can't," Hazel insists. "We need to see Reyna _now_."

Terminus mumbles something about mortals in a hurry and finally says, "Fine. But you leave your weapons here; you know the rules."

"Of course," Hazel says. She unclasps her _spatha_ from around her waist and sets it down on the ground next to the statue's pedestal.

"You too," Terminus snaps at me. I sigh and draw my angel blade from its sheath on my belt, dropping it next to Hazel's sword. Angel blades are the only thing that can harm or kill an angel; I stole my particular weapon from an angel a couple years back. That angel had happened to be trying to kill me. " _All_ of them," Terminus growls. I purse my lips. I draw back the slit in the side of my skirt and remove the demon-killing knife from the strap on my thigh. I remove a salt-infused iron and silver switchblade from the inside of my shoe and a silver wolf pin from my hair, throwing them down with the rest of my weapons. I also tug off the bronze and brass-studded bracelet from my wrist and unclasp a small pouch from my belt, adding them to the pile. The leather pouch holds emergency vials of holy water and salt, as well as a small syringe of dead man's blood, some charcoal and chalk for writing runes, and a lock-picking kit.

I cross my arms. "Happy?" Hazel stares at my arsenal with wide eyes. "What?" I ask innocently. "I've got a lot of things trying to kill me."

"And _those_?" Terminus asks, looking behind me. Hazel's eyes follow, confused. I stare at the stone man, my mouth open.

"Are you _kidding_ me!?" I growl. "How would I hurt anyone with those?"

"They're razor-sharp."

I roll my eyes. "Well I can't _do_ anything about that!"

"I will not allow weapons into my city!" Terminus roars.

"They're _not_ weapons, you slab of concrete! And it's not like I can just get _rid_ of them!"

"What are you talking about?" Hazel asks, more confused than before.

I clench my jaw. "My wings."

Her jaw drops. "You have…wings?"

"Yeah. I inherited them from Dad. They just _happen_ to have razor-sharp feathers because that's how I was _born_!" I snap at Terminus. That was actually a little bit of a lie. I wasn't born with wings; not technically. I was born with innate angelic abilities–like teleportation and stuff, but my wings didn't actually manifest until _after_ I became immortal.

"It doesn't matter," Terminus huffs. "They are considered weapons and are not allowed in the city."

"I can't even _hurt_ anyone with them!" I shout in exasperation. "Demigods and humans can't even see them, let alone _feel_ them. See?" I prove my point by unfurling one of my black wings and swinging it at Hazel; she doesn't react–because she can't see it. It passes straight through her like smoke.

Terminus is about to shout back when another voice calls from the darkness. "What in the name of Jupiter is going on here?" The voice is female, authoritative. A figure steps out of the darkness.

"Reyna!" Hazel breathes. "Thank the gods. I got your letter. Terminus won't let us into the city."

"Why not?" Reyna asks the statue. Despite the forwardness of her question, her voice is respectful.

"That girl–no the one I'm pointing to! Look at where I'm pointing, praetor– _that_ one refuses to disarm herself."

I throw my hands in the air. "I've _told_ you; they're _attached_ to me!"

"What?" Reyna looks confused.

"Ugh!" I cry. "My _wings_."

"What wings?"

I slam my forehead with my palm. "They're invisible–and _intangible_ , might I reiterate–to mortals. Only Stone-face and I can see them."

"Jez," Hazel whispers, "Terminus is a god. Don't insult him." I cross my arms angrily.

"Terminus," Reyna says carefully, "I will vouch for the girl." I hold myself back from pointing out that I'm older than her. Physically as well as literally.

Terminus obviously isn't happy about it, but lets me enter the city.

"So what–" I start to say, but Reyna cuts me off.

"Not here," she whispers. I bite back a retort. We walk silently through the city; empty stalls line the streets, with various signs advertising demigod-related merchandise. Eventually we arrive at Reyna's office–well, it's not _really_ an office. More of a bank-looking temple thing. Reyna leads us inside; two bronze braziers stand burning on either side. The walls are decorated with velvet on both sides, and a mega-sized, cathedral-quality mosaic in the back. A wooden table in the center is strewn with books, papers, scrolls, weapons, and, for some reason, a bowl of Jelly Babies. There is a metallic sound to my left. I look over to see two metal dogs–one silver, the other gold–prowl towards me. They growl.

"Argum; Argentum," Reyna says warningly. The dogs sit. Reyna takes a seat behind the table and gazes at me. Eventually, she folds her hands across the table and says, "You're not a demigod."

"No," I say. I don't elaborate.

"You told the guards you were Hazel's sister."

"I am." Reyna glances at the greyhounds. They don't react.

"Are you…Greek, then?"

"No." Again, she looks to her dogs. They sit as still as…well, metal statues. Her eyebrows stitch together in confusion.

Hazel jumps in. "Look, Jezebel _is_ my sister," she says. "But she's not a child of Hades or Pluto. The Romans and the Greeks aren't the only immortal beings out there. And sometimes, like the Romans and Greeks, they have multiple personalities, shared between the religions."

"What are you saying?" Reyna asks.

Hazel sighs. This is never the easiest thing to explain. "Jez is half-angel. Her father is Lucifer."

Reyna's eyes bug out of her head. I get the feeling she's not usually taken by surprise like this. "You mean…like, the _Devil_?"

"Yep," I say and wiggle my fingers. "Literal Hell-spawn. Nice to meet you." My hand drops back by my side and I scowl. Reyna's hand closes around a letter opener and she makes the sign of the cross. I roll my eyes. "Oh, come _on_. _My_ father isn't that much different than Pluto or Hades, but I don't see you pulling a knife on Hazel or Nico. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not a demon. Besides," I add, leaning against the wall, "you can't hurt me with that."

"Oh?" she asks. She holds up the letter opener. It's not sharp, but could still be used dangerously. "Imperial Gold; it can harm demigods and gods. Why not a demi-angel?"

My head tilts down and I glare at the Roman through my eyelashes. The fires in the braziers sputter out. "Because I'm more powerful than any of you," I hiss. "I'm not supposed to exist." I step away from the wall. "Humans and gods having kids–that's normal. It's been happening for centuries. But humans and _angels_? That was never supposed to happen." I continue striding slowly towards Reyna. Hazel has backed away; I see fear in their eyes. "The gods are limited in their power–their children even more so. But what happens when you take one of the most powerful–and the most uncontrollable–angel and give him offspring? The result is more powerful than you can imagine. I'm not supposed to exist–I _can't_ exist, according to the laws of the world." I reach the table and lean over it, pressing my hands into the wood. "And yet, here I am. So you tell me, daughter of Bellona, _can_ you kill me?"

Reyna has stayed in her chair, but her knuckles are white. "I never told you who my mother is," she whispers.

I smile cruelly. After a moment, I step back and relax. The fires burst to life again. Reyna looks nervously down at the table, where two black handprints are now permanently seared into the wood. "Besides," I say, "you need me."

"And why would _I_ need _your_ help?" she narrows her eyes.

I cross my arms. "Because I know what–or rather whom–you're dealing with. And you can't handle them alone."

Once again, Reyna looks at her dogs. They continue to watch me, but haven't made a noise or moved since they sat. Reyna takes that as a sign of me telling the truth and puts down her knife. She folds her hands. "Alright, I'll trust you."

 _Like you have a_ choice, I think.

"So tell me, who is hunting down my soldiers, and how do we stop them?"

"Their names are Sam and Dean Winchester. They're hunters–of the supernatural variety. They track down demons and monsters and kill them. Somehow, they caught on to you guys, and they think you're witches; they don't really care much for witches. Or anything that is unnatural, for that matter."

"We have reports of a third man."

I swear under my breath. "I was hoping that wasn't the case," I mutter.

"What?"

I sigh. "The Winchesters sometimes travel with a…companion."

"You mean…" Hazel whispers. I look at her and nod, pursing my lips.

"I was going to let you handle this on your own, but it looks like I have no other choice but to…help–" I dislike saying that word "–you. I don't like it. I don't…help people."

"So what do we do?" Hazel asks. "Are we going to talk to them?"

I clench my jaw. "Not likely. You'll probably want to bring your weapons."

"Why?" Reyna asks.

"Because the last time I saw my uncle, he tried to kill me."


	3. Chapter 3

**THREE - NYX**

I finally tired out Cerbie (it only took an hour) and start to head back to my sisters when I hear him.

"There is something in a town called Storybrooke. I want it."

"Good for you. Not my problem," I respond dryly.

He materializes in front of me. "Oh, my dear Nyx, I do believe it is."

My eyes narrow. "I am not your dear Nyx, Osiris. You are not my father and you do not own me. I don't have to do anything you tell me."

His laughter echoes throughout the halls of the underworld. "Oh, sweet little Nyxie. Your mother gave you to my service, so you will do _exactly_ what I say."

I sigh. I don't like it when people–or gods–order me around. "What's Storybrooke?"

A victorious smile spreads across his ghostly face. "Oh, a little town in Maine with some very complex reality-manipulating magic. But that's not important. All you need to know is what I want _inside_ Storybrooke."

"Which is?" I ask impatiently.

"A simple little dragon scale."

"A drag–" I press my fingers to my temples. "You sound like my sister," I mutter. I sigh again. "Whatever. How do I get it?"

"Ah, see, that's the tricky part. It's being held by a…magician of sorts. When you make it inside, look for Mr. Gold, he–"

" _Make_ it inside?" I interrupt. "You make it sound like I can't just shadow-travel straight there. What aren't you telling me, Osiris?"

His eyebrows lower at my tone. "You're very irksome, night child."

"So I've been told."

He sighs. "There is special border magic in place. The town's creator wanted to make sure no one got in–or out."

This little town was seeming less and less inviting. "So how do I get in?"

"You can shadow-travel to the border. Once you're there, you'll have to cast this spell–" A symbol appears in front of me, glowing red in the dark air. It looks like a bowling pin wearing headphones.

"What does that mean?" I ask, rather bored.

"If you bothered to _study_ ," Osiris huffs, "you would know it is the hieroglyph Sa, the symbol of protection."

"Study? Look, Ossie, I'm not a magician. I don't take after my mother."

"That is beside the point."

"No it's not," I cross my arms. "If I'm not a magician, I can't cast the stupid spell."

"Draw the hieroglyph on your hand when you reach the border," he says impatiently. "The word is powerful, and you have enough Egyptian blood to activate it."

"And what do I do once I find this 'Mr. Gold'?"

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "You're a smart girl. Improvise."

"And if I say no?" I leave the question hanging.

"Then you will receive a fate far worse than any death you've had before. Something even your father cannot bring you back from."

I stand staring at him for a couple minutes, my arms crossed, my jaw set, and my eyes narrowed. Finally, I sigh angrily and snap, "Fine. I'll get your stinking dragon scale, dead man." I can feel his annoyance rolling off him in waves. I shadow-travel out of there before he has the chance to zap me.

I really do _not_ want to be 15 again.

I land with a thud next to a dark road. A green highway sign to my left reads "Welcome to Storybrooke." I jump to my feet and, after brushing myself off, trudge towards the sign. Just behind it, I can see a shimmering black curtain, almost like a glossy shadow. It's the same type of energy that surrounds Jez. I pull out a pen and scribble Osiris' hieroglyph on the back of my hand; I feel a jolt of energy, like sticking a fork into an electrical socket (something I made the mistake of doing when I was seven). I step through the protective circle.

It takes me a few minutes to reach the town. When I get there, I walk towards a diner–the only place with lights still on. With its white walls and waitresses with overly-fake smiles, the diner feels more like the set for a TV show than an actual restaurant.

I see a man sitting at the high countertop, a steaming mug clutched in his hand. As I enter, a little bell sounds above my head. The man turns to look, and I see his face.

 _Father._ I panic and almost bolt right back out the door.

But then I look closer. The man is not, in fact, Hades, though he looks almost identical–aside from the silver earring, scruffy beard, long leather jacket, and the fact that one of his hands has been replaced by a silver hook. He looks at me as strangely as I look at him.

A waitress wearing a red skirt so short, it may as well be a pair of underwear, approaches me. Her black hair is long, but piled on top of her head in a sloppy bun; streaks of red dye run through it. She wears a white blouse, tied to show her stomach, black fishnet stockings, and knee-high leather boots. Her lips are redder than fresh blood.

"Hey," she says, chewing gum, "haven't seen you around before. What can I get 'cha? Food or a room?"

"Neither," I reply, my eyes still on Dad's doppelgänger. "I'm looking for a man named Mr. Gold." Suddenly, the room grows quiet. The diners who weren't already looking at me turn and stare with wide eyes. "So, _that_ got your attention," I say, smirking at the man with a hook. He rises from his chair and swaggers towards me.

Narrowing his eyes, he asks, "What do _you_ want with the crocodile?"


	4. Chapter 4

**FOUR**

How do I describe Sam and Dean Winchester?

Let's see. They're tall, angry, buff, really loud, and _really_ annoying. They kill anything that isn't natural–shoot, stab, exorcise first, ask questions later. Sam is the taller one. Dean is the older one. Sam has long, shaggy brown hair, Dean is a dusty blond. They drive around in a shiny, black '67 Chevy Impala, which also doubles as a military-grade weapons arsenal, demon trap, and mobile home for the boys.

But believe it or not, they're the most terrifying bastards you'd ever have the misfortune of meeting.

Among hunters, they're known to be the scariest, most lethal guys in the business. They're practically gods to those pigsticking masochists. And they're no less known among the monster folk. The Winchesters are the things baby monsters have nightmares about. They're the things supernatural parents warn their kids of. The monsters hiding in the monsters' closets. "Don't draw too much attention to yourself or the Winchesters will find you." "Don't kill humans all in one place or Dean will get you." "Stay sporadic or Sam will track your pattern."

"Behave yourself or the Winchesters will kill you."

And above all, _don't_ underestimate them. If you think you've trapped them, _they've_ trapped _you_. Think they're unarmed? They probably aren't.

And they always, _always_ have backup.

Hazel, Reyna, and I wait in a small clearing, off a dirt road. It's about two in the morning. I've concealed myself for the time being, turned invisible. I want to give Reyna and Hazel a chance to talk to the boys before they try to kill us.

Of course, that's not what happens.

The Impala rolls into the clearing. The Romans shield their eyes against the headlights. The car turns off; three figures step out of the car, two holding flashlights. They approach.

"We got your message," one of them says. I recognize the voice: Sam.

"Are you alone?" another growls. Dean.

"Yes," Reyna replies.

"They're lying." Sam and Dean turn and look at the third figure standing behind them.

"Cas?" Dean asks.

"There is someone else here," Cas says. "I can sense them. It–I recognize it. It…no. impossible."

I act before he has a chance to do anything. Teleporting just behind him, I make myself visible again and throw my arms around his shoulders. The tip of my angel blade presses against his neck. "Hey, Cassie," I purr in his ear. "Did you miss me? What's it been, two years now?"

"Jane. You're supposed to be dead," Cas replies. Sam and Dean point shotguns at us in a panic.

"And you're getting rusty. You should've tried harder."

"I cut out your heart."

"I got better. And what about you, Castiel? Last I heard, you lost your grace. Isn't that why all the angels suddenly decided to eat dirt?" I _tsk_. "Angel politics–messy business."

"Let him go," Dean orders.

I look at them. "You must be the Winchesters. I've heard a lot about you. You know, you boys have caused a lot of–" I'm cut off as there's a flash of silver and suddenly, a knife protrudes from my forehead.

It was intended to kill me. It only makes me angry.

I teleport back by the girls and pull the knife out of my skull. The wound heals instantly. I gaze down at the silver blade. Black runes are etched deep into the metal.

"A demon-killing knife?" I look at Sam. " _Really!?_ "

"Son of a bitch," Dean mutters.

I give him a sarcastic smile. "Close," I say with a tight jaw. "Try daughter of Lucifer." I throw the knife into the grass. It disappears into the darkness. The boys stare at me in horror.

"D–daughter of…?" Sam whispers.

Dean looks at Cas. " _This_ is the Nephilim?"

"I thought she was dead. I thought I killed her," he replies.

"You could have _mentioned_ she was _Lucifer's_ brat!" Dean shouts.

"He didn't want to _scare_ you," I laugh.

"How is…how are you…?" Sam tries to say.

"Alive? Well Cassie failed to kill me. We established this. If you're asking how it is possible I _exist_ , that's a little more complicated. Luci met my mom in 1888 and–"

"You were born in 1888?" Dean asks with disbelief.

"1889," I correct. "Don't interrupt."

Sam speaks anyway. "But how? Lucifer isn't capable of love. He's a monster."

I scowl at him. "You would know, wouldn't you, Sammy?" Sam flinches.

Dean's hand tightens on his shotgun. "You–"

"Let me guess," I sigh, "'son of a bitch'? You're too predictable, Dean."

Castiel's angel blade appears in his hand. He strides towards me. "I failed to kill you last time," he says menacingly. "I assure you, I won't make the same mistake again." He draws back his arm; I prepare to fight.

And suddenly, Cas is sprawled on the ground, and a smallish girl lies on top of him. She wears a tattered camo jacket over a black shirt, dark purple cargo pants, and black combat boots. Her curly, layered red-and-black hair is streaked with mud, as is her face.

"Ow," she groans, sitting up.

"Nyx?" Hazel and I ask at the same time Dean shouts, "Another one?"

Our sister pushes herself to her feet. "Thanks for leaving me out of one of your adventures," she says. "Again."

I shrug and cross my arms. "Sorry; didn't have time. In case you didn't notice–we're dealing with the _Winchesters._ "

She turns and looks at them. "Ah. Right. Moose and Squirrel." Then she looks down at Cas. "You have four heads," she says plainly.

I sigh. "Nyx, this is Castiel."

"You mean the guy who–?" she draws a finger across her throat. I nod.

"What are you?" Dean demands, pointing his shotgun at Nyx. "Demon?"

Nyx rolls her eyes. "Do I _look_ like a black-eyed freak?" As if to prove her wrong, her irises start to change color–black, with shifting sparks of purple and grey. They do that when she's angry. However, unlike a demon, the whites of her eyes don't change.

"We could kill you and find out."

"Go to Hell."

"Been there," Dean's eyes narrow, "didn't agree with me."

"Heard Heaven and Purgatory didn't want you, either."

Dean pumps the forestock on his shotgun. "You're about to get a one-way ticket downstairs."

She shrugs. "Wouldn't be the first time I'd bitten it. I might just take you with me." She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a black stone; it morphs into a Stygian Iron sword. Sam's eyes widen when he sees it.

"Bring it on, bitch," Dean growls.

"Dean, that might not–" Sam tries to say, but he never gets the chance. Nyx shadow-travels closer to Dean, her sword swinging. But she's too late.

A gunshot echoes around the clearing.

And Nyx falls to the ground.


	5. Chapter 5

**FIVE**

Seeing people die is one of the inevitabilities of immortality. I've had over 100 years to realize this. But I still haven't gotten used to it. And seeing my sister collapse with a bloody crater in her chest is no different.

Hazel and I rush forward. I throw myself down on the ground next to Nyx and place my hand on her shoulder. There is no response. "What the _Hell!?_ " I scream at Dean. He reloads his gun and points it at me again. Hazel draws her sword. Reyna pulls out two small daggers and joins us.

"Get back," she growls.

I rise to my feet and draw my angel blade. "We only wanted to _talk_ ," I hiss. "Do you two _have_ to go around killing everything out of context?"

"Ow," I hear behind me. We all whip around to see Nyx sitting up in the grass. The hole in her chest is gone, but her shirt is still torn and bloody. She looks almost two years younger. " _That_ one was particularly painful," she mutters, pressing a hand to the nonexistent bullet wound. She looks at her hand. Then touches her face and runs her fingers through her hair, which is now chestnut brown. "No…" she groans. "Not again!" she pushes herself to her feet. "Two years. _Two years_ ," she cries. "I worked so hard to–" her voice catches in her throat. Cas, who, in the commotion, managed to move without being seen, stands behind her.

"Cas–!" Sam tries to stop him. But it's too late.

Nyx looks down. The tip of the demon-killing knife protrudes from her chest. "Oh, Hades," she mutters.

And she crumples to the ground again.

We all stare at her bloody (well, bloodi _er_ ) body. After a couple seconds, she moves again. " _Malaka_ ," she swears in Greek. "Can we _stop_ playing 'Kill the Daughter of Hades' please!?"

Dean and Cas stare at her in horror. "Why aren't you dead?" Cas asks.

"Runs in the family," she mutters in reply. She pushes herself to her feet again.

"What?"

Dean points his gun. "Would you _stop_ that?" Nyx snaps. "We've _already_ established that won't work."

"What are you?" Dean growls.

"They're demigods, Dean," Sam answers. "I've been trying to tell you." He points at Nyx's sword. "I recognize that from some lore I read. That's Stygian Iron. It's believed to be a rare metal found in the Greek version of the underworld." He gestures to Reyna's daggers and Hazel's sword. "And if I'm not mistaken, those are Imperial Gold. Roman."

"You _are_ the smart one," I say with genuine admiration.

"That's what we wanted to explain," Reyna says, sheathing her daggers. "I am Reyna Avila Ramírez-Arellano. I am a daughter of Bellona, and the praetor of the Legion."

"The Legion?" Sam asks.

Reyna nods. "Roman–and Greek–gods still exist. Our two cultures still exist as well. Roman demigods live here in California, in a secret city, New Rome. We uphold the traditions and culture of our ancestors."

"And the Greeks are in New York," Nyx adds, taking a few wary steps away from Cas. "At this place called Camp Half-Blood."

"We're not witches," Reyna continues. "We're more like you–we work to protect humans from monsters and gods who wish to destroy humanity."

"You said 'it runs in the family'," Sam says to Nyx. "What do you mean?"

Hazel, Nyx, and I look at each other. I turn to the boys. "Hazel, Nyx, and I are all…sort of related."

Sam looks at me in confusion. "But you're…"

"Half-angel, yeah," Nyx continues. "And I'm a daughter of Hades; Hazel–Pluto. They're all…well, the same."

"What?"

"Do you remember Gabriel?" I ask.

"The angel?"

I nod. "He was also the Norse god Loki, remember? Well…Lucifer is also Hades. And Pluto. Hazel, Nyx, and I are–technically–half-sisters."

"Wait," Dean says, "so you expect me to believe that Lucifer is up and kickin', running around with alternate personalities and having kids?"

I shrug. "More or less."

"And you're his kid from 1889?"

"Yep. Pre-revolutionary Russia."

"How are you still alive?" Sam asks.

I glance nervously at my sisters. The boys don't really know the whole story involving my father and the Pit. "It's, um…complicated. 'Bout a hundred years ago, some stuff went down and I became immortal. That's why Cas didn't kill me when he tore out my heart. Hurt like Hell, but didn't kill me. I'm not completely 100% angel, but not fully Nephilim anymore, either. It's a…long story. You don't want to hear it." I almost breathe a loud sigh of relief when someone changes the subject. Unfortunately, I'm still too wrapped up in my own thoughts to notice who it is at first.

"Well, isn't this a pleasant surprise?" We all turn in the direction of the voice.

"Abaddon," the Winchesters both growl. I blink. Abaddon; I almost forgot about her. I'd heard she was back and vying to usurp Crowley for control of Hell, but I haven't had the pleasure of running into her.

Until now.

She wears a black leather jacket over a red shirt, blood-stained jeans, and high-heeled boots. Her red hair is drawn back with silver clips. She wears a scowl on her face.

"What are you doing here, Abaddon?" Dean snarls.

"Well, when I heard that Lucifer's little princess had wandered off on an adventure, I had to come and see her myself."

"ME?" I squawk.

She smiles cruelly. "Of course. I've been _dying_ to meet you. Well…that is, if I _could_ die. But I can't get to you when you're in Hades' palace." She shakes her head. "So I had a few demons spy on you."

"Why do you want to meet _me_?" I ask.

"Well," her voice suddenly comes from right next to my ear. A manicured hand grips my arm tightly. "So I can do this."

And we're sucked into the void.

Demon-travel is not my favorite mode of transportation. I always come out of it feeling like I've just been sucked through a straw. And I smell like sulfur for hours.

The room I've appeared in is old. Practically vintage. If I was a betting girl, I'd say we were in an abandoned mansion. The brown wallpaper is peeling away, revealing plaster. The ceiling is riddled with holes; the carpet has mildew. There is a dusty fireplace; two claw-footed armchairs sit in front of it. Abaddon is perched on one of them, admiring her nails.

"Sit," she orders without looking up. I glance around for another option. "Don't even try," Abaddon hisses, "there's no door. Sit." I grudgingly comply.

"So you waited for months, spying on me, so that you could, what? Teleport me to a box and offer me tea?"

"No. I brought you here to threaten you," she says plainly. She stands up and glares down at me. "I want you on my side."

"Your _side_?"

"In the fight against Crowley. I want to bring him down. And you're going to help me. Once Crowley sees I've got the boss's daughter on my campaign, he'll run for the hills."

"And why would I do that?"

"If you don't help me, I'll–"

"Abaddon," a man says behind us.

"What!?" she screeches without turning. "I'm busy."

"I found these two trying to shadow-travel in here. Abaddon whips around. I lean forward and peer around the back of the chair. A demon stands in the middle of the room, each hand clenched around the neck of a teenage girl.

My sisters.

"Unhand me!" Nyx snaps, swinging her arms at the demon. I notice that Hazel's sword appears to be missing. _Great_ , I think, _they got themselves caught_ and _disarmed_. Then I realize my own weapons have disappeared.

 _Bitch_ , I curse Abaddon silently.

"Well," Abaddon sighs, "this was unexpected." She looks at me. "How's this for incentive? If you don't join me, I'll kill them."

"Really?" I ask sarcastically, rising from my chair. "You'll kill them? _That's_ your blackmail?" I laugh. "Your brain must be as rotten as your fashion sense. I don't _care_ if you kill them! I barely know them." Nyx is about to argue, but I shoot her a distasteful look. She understands and shuts her mouth again; Abaddon falls for the ruse.

"Nothing in this _universe_ could bend me to your will," I snap.

"Oh, really?" She snaps her fingers. A door appears in the wall to my right; the cracks around the doorframe glow with white light. The light fades; the door opens, and a man stumbles through. He's maybe twenty years old; tall, not terribly handsome.

"No," I say, so quiet not even Abaddon hears me.

His eyes pass over the room in confusion. When they land on me, they grow wide, and his mouth opens in shock.

"Amanda," he whispers.

"No," I say louder, panic rising in my chest. The man takes a step towards me. I take one away from him. "This can't be happening," I whisper. Abaddon smiles in triumph.

"Amanda?" the man says again. I can't find anything to say. Memories flash behind my eyes. I blink away tears and press my hand to my mouth. "Amanda, you're crying," he says, reaching for me. I try to turn away, but he's quicker than me. He grabs my arm and holds me by the shoulders. The gesture isn't harsh; he's gentle. Loving. "Mandi, what's going on? Where have you been?" he gazes at me. I can't meet his eyes. "I've been calling you for two days. I went to your house but you weren't there. Where did you go? Amanda, _please_ , talk to me!"

"I…can't," I manage to whisper. I don't need to look at him to know he's hurt. Something inside me strains to reach out and hold him, to open up and tell him everything. I hold it back; it physically pains me. His hands shift on my arms. I feel something cold press against my shoulder. I grimace.

"Jez?" I hear from somewhere. I look around and my eyes focus on Nyx. "What's going on?" I flinch. She sounds like him. "Who is this?"

The man draws his hands down to mine. His fingers instinctively search for something that isn't there–that hasn't been there for a long time. I stare at his shirt. Taking a deep breath, I speak, slowly, carefully. "This is Scott Collins." I force myself to look up into his eyes. It almost kills me. "He's my fiancé."


	6. Chapter 6

**SIX**

It was the year 1986. I had been living in a small Kansas town for about three years, going by Amanda at the time. His name was Scott Collins. I'm not sure what drew me to talk to him. No mortal boy had ever caught my attention the way Scott did that day in the diner...

* * *

I'm sitting on my regular bar stool, drinking a bottle of Coke. Since becoming immortal, I've never really had to eat. Food doesn't taste the same when you are aware of every molecule. But Coke never gets old. An old Huey Lewis and the News song plays softly from the jukebox in the corner.

The door opens with the jingling of a bell and seven or eight older teenagers walk in, some boys, a few girls, all laughing and talking. A couple of the boys have their arms slung over girls' shoulders. I barely notice them as they slide into a booth.

But then one of them approaches the counter. He's a simple boy. 18 years old, 19 maybe, if only recently. He's not much to look at; he's not an Elvis wannabe with slicked back hair and a strong jawbone (I should know–I met Elvis). His hair is sandy blond, curly. There's a faint reddish tint to it, a pigment only my enhanced vision could have noticed. A series of tiny freckles adorns his nose and cheekbones. His eyes are soft hazel. His face long and narrow. He's not that tall, but not short. Six foot-one maybe.

His clothes don't stand out either. He wears what every other boy in this time wears: a sleeveless tee (with Mickey Mouse printed on the front), an open button-up shirt over top, dark jeans, and white high-top trainers. There is nothing special about him. He is normal. Ordinary.

But I notice him.

"Can we get a round of milkshakes?" he asks the waiter. His voice carries the little intonation all southern accents do, but for some reason, it sounds sweeter, melodious. I try to keep myself from staring at him as he thanks the waiter and returns to his seat.

What had come over me? I hadn't looked at a boy that way since I was 16. And that was 80 years ago!

A deep voice jolts me out of my stupor. "You gonna order somethin' else, Mandi?" I look up to see the bartender eying my empty Coke bottle.

"Uh, no, Sal, thanks," I reply, standing up and moving the glass bottle a couple inches away. I place some coins on the counter to pay for my soda and turn to leave. Just before I reach the door, I hear his voice again.

"Hey, wait." I turn to see he's walking towards me. "Mandi, right? Sorry, didn't mean to dip." Despite my efforts to remain calm, my heart skips a beat. He holds out his hand. In it is a silver chain with a 2-centimeter charm: an inverted teardrop with a circle inside, separated by a row of six-sided stars. Stamped into the circle are Hebrew letters. "You dropped this."

My heart rises in my chest as I smile and let him drop the necklace into my palm. The clasp is broken. It must have gotten caught on my shirt.

"Oh hey, it's busted," he says. "That's bunk. Look, I know a guy who's good with this kinda thing. I can give you his 411 if you want."

"No, thanks," I mutter. What is it about him that makes me so flustered?

 _"_ _Do you believe in love?"_ Huey Lewis's voice sings from the jukebox. I try to ignore it.

"What's that pendant mean?" the boy asks before I have the chance to turn away again.

"It's, um, the Shema Yisrael; the first words of part of the Torah, and a Jewish prayer."

"You Jewish, then?"

"No. I used to be. Judaism didn't really…stick. This necklace was my mother's."

"Family heirloom. Gnarly." He clears his throat. "Name's Scott. Scott Collins."

"Amanda Byrn."

"You a student at Merriweather? I haven't seen you around. I'd remember if I did." He smiles and ducks his head a little.

I almost blush. _What's going on?_ I think harshly to myself. _You don't blush!_ "No, I, um, graduated early."

"Really? I wish I could. I'm not smart enough to–"

"Heeeeey, Scotty," someone interrupts. We look over to see a couple boys approaching. I don't recognize them from Scott's group, but their clothing implies they're 'bad boys'. "Whatcha got there?" the one in the center says. His hair is black, slicked so much, I can _see_ the hair gel; his pants are tight, his jacket black leather. A pair of shiny black shades peeks out of his shirt pocket. He eyes me almost hungrily. "Girl, you a parking ticket? 'Cause you got _fine_ written all over you." His friends snicker. One of them high fives the first guy. Any happiness I'm feeling is washed away by disgust.

"Hey, c'mon Eric, leave her alone," Scott says. He tries to sound tough, but his voice cracks.

Eric laughs and flings his arm around my shoulders. He smells like hair gel, bad cologne, and stale alcohol. "That dress looks mighty fine," he says in my ear. "But you know what would look better on you? _Me_."

 _That's it, pretty boy,_ I growl inwardly. I throw on a cheesy, exaggerated smile, force myself to act sweet, and lean into the boy, trying not to gag. "Well aren't you a charmer?" I bat my eyelashes for effect. "Is that the line you use on all the girls?"

Eric laughs again, oblivious to my act. "Only ones as bodacious as you."

"Well," I giggle, "then why hasn't it worked?" I elbow him in the gut and push away from him, my face dropping back into a scowl.

Eric grunts. "You…betty."

"Bite me," I reply. "Now scram. Sal doesn't take kindly to fighting. And I'm sure you don't want to injure your pride by getting beat up by a _betty_." Eric and his posse leave, throwing glares at me over their shoulders.

"That was…" Scott whispers. I look at him; he looks back in shock. Panic rises in my stomach. _Oh no,_ I think, _I've scared him away._ Then, suddenly, his face breaks into a grin. "Radical! You're awesome, Amanda!" This time, I actually blush.

"You kids alright?" Sal asks behind us.

"Yeah," I reply. I hold up my hand and toss something to Sal. "He'll be back, lookin' for this." Sal catches it. It's Eric's wallet.

"Mandi…" Sal says warningly.

"Don't worry, Sal," I smile. "I only did it 'cause I could smell beer on him. Don't need anyone getting in a wreck today."

Scott stares at me in awe. "You're the coolest chick I've ever met! Can we…" he rubs the back of his neck. "I mean, do you wanna…get lunch some time?"

Something explodes inside my chest. My face practically breaks from the grin that forms. "I'd love to." Scott beams. "Here, I'll give you my number," I say, pulling out a pen and reaching for his arm. As soon as our skin touches, I feel a spark inside me.

I'm not talking figuratively.

My hand makes contact with his wrist, and the angel grace inside me flares to life. I stare at him; he must've felt something too, because he gazes into my eyes with the same intensity. We stand there. I'm not sure how much time passes. It could've been seconds, minutes, or a whole century. For the first time in my life, I am completely unaware of the world around me. "I, um…" my voice is lost.

"Yeah…" he replies.

Then, someone coughs loudly and we're snapped roughly back to reality. Scott's friends stand around us, watching with mixed emotions–some stare in confusion or discomfort; the girls all look at us like we're the next hit chick flick. I clear my throat and duck my head, my cheeks turning as red as blood. I press the pen to Scott's hand and scribble down my phone number. Then I step back as quickly and as far as I can. My hand still tingles from where I touched his.

"I'll, um…call you," Scott stammers.

"Right," I reply as his friends usher him out the door. The girls giggle to each other. I step out the door a few seconds later and gaze wistfully after the gaggle of teenagers. I look down at my hand. Something's changed; everything I see seems clearer, the colors brighter, the sounds sweeter.

It's magical. My spirit had never felt so light, so free. I lean against the diner wall and smile to myself.

 _Scott Collins,_ I whisper in my head, _my soulmate._

The next year passed in a blur, yet to Scott and me, time seemed to have stopped. We spent almost all our time together–whenever Scott wasn't in school or working at the local car wash and gas pump. I often stopped by on his breaks to see him; I waited for him after school. We were rarely ever separated. Yet it was never enough time together.

I knew from that first touch that we were destined to be together. I know it sounds cheesy, but when you have the power of Perception, destiny doesn't seem like such a novelty. I fell in love instantly. Scott fell faster.

He proposed to me on August 23rd in Sal's diner–the place we'd first met. _Do You Believe in Love_ played from the jukebox, just like it had that day. That was as fancy as Scott made it; there weren't roses or dimmed lights. He wasn't dressed in a tuxedo. It was simple, straightforward, sweet. Everything I loved about him. It was the happiest day of my life.

Everything was perfect.

I should have known it wouldn't last.

It's October 11th–two weeks before the wedding. Scott and I had just visited a bakery for the cake tasting. I'm over the moon; I still can't believe that I found the literal love of my life.

I push open the door to my house and instantly know something is wrong. The lightbulb in the front hall is broken; glass litters the rug. I smell sulfur. Drawing my demon knife from the back of my waistband, I step around the broken glass and creep towards the kitchen.

I feel someone move behind me, and I turn to strike, but I'm too slow. The demon disarms me easily and pins my arms behind my back. We teleport.

I collapse to the floor as soon as my feet touch solid ground again. I feel weak. I look up, with some effort, to see that the barn I'm in is painted with countless angel sigils; I'm surrounded by a burning ring of holy oil. They don't render me completely powerless or trapped, like they would an actual angel, but they sap my power to the point where I'm weaker than a human; likewise, Holy Fire circles can't actually contain me, but hurt like hell if I try to get out. And with the sigils weakening me, I couldn't attempt it.

The demons, of course, are completely unaffected.

"Here's the deal," a wheezy voice says. It belongs to a tall, scrawny man; his irises are pure yellow. "You're going to tell me where the Devil's Gate is, and in return, I won't have my boys here tear your precious mortal fiancé limb from limb."

I try to remain calm. I recognize his energy signature from an incident almost four years ago. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, don't you? Then you weren't the one who gave Samuel Colt the secret to creating the ultimate hunting pistol? You didn't help Colt build a giant gate to seal the gates of Hell in the 1940s? My bad. Must've been the _other_ Nephilim child of Lucifer."

I don't reply, but spit at him. The demon's eyes narrow. "Have it your way," he growls. "I'll get it out of you one way or another."

He advances towards me.

* * *

If I had known what was going to happen, I would have made a different choice. As it was, I held up against the demon–who I learned was named Azazel–and his torture for three days, before finally giving up the position of Colt's Devil's Gate. And how to get past the iron rails set in the perimeter of the ten-mile pentagram.

Once he'd gotten everything they wanted out of me, Azazel had a couple demons drag me outside, where they left me, tired and broken. It was over an hour before I was able to teleport home. The scene I was met with would haunt me for decades.

Almost everything is broken. There are streaks and pools of blood on the floor and walls. The smell of sulfur is unbearable. The kitchen table is collapsed; a woman's body lay in the wreckage. More bodies are strewn about; the victims of a brutal fight. I could have stood and stared at the destruction longer, but something draws me to the bathroom at the bottom of the stairs. I pull open the door.

And scream.

Lying on the linoleum floor, blood drying on his shirt and in his hair, is Scott. He's dead.


	7. Chapter 7

**SEVEN**

Scott hadn't let go of me since he'd entered the room. Abaddon and her demon had vanished, leaving us to "reacquaint ourselves and think over her offer."

Scott and I sit across from each other on the floor in the middle of the room. Hazel lounges in one of the arm chairs while Nyx is busy pacing back and forth, pounding her fists against anything she approaches.

"Nyx, cut it out," Hazel groans. "You're making me motion sick. Abaddon said there's no way out; 'nothing gets in or out without her say-so'," she quotes.

"Zachariah did this to Dean once," I mutter.

"You're dodging the subject, Amanda," Scott chides. "What's going on? Why are you dressed like that?" I glance down at my dress. It's red silk, with a low-cut neckline and a slit up the left side (to easily access my demon knife). In Scott's time, only whores wore things like this. "Who are they?" He looks over at Hazel and Nyx. "And where are we?"

I squeeze his hand. It hurts on the inside. "That's a lot of questions."

He looks me deep in the eye. "Amanda, please."

My heart breaks a little more. I sigh sadly. "Scott," my voice catches; "this isn't easy to explain. I should have told you long ago, but…" I take a deep breath. "It's been two days since you saw me, right?" He nods. "Well…it's been thirty years since _I_ saw _you_. This is the year 2013." As soon as I say it, everything else floods out. Scott keeps his mouth closed while I speak, though the more I talk, the more his eyebrows knit together. Nyx and Hazel listen as well; I've never told them my whole story.

"My real name is Marcia Sofia Kamzoil. I was born in the year 1889, in Russia. Our family was Jewish; we lived in a small Jewish community in the village Anatevka. In 1905, the Tsar made an edict that forced us from our homes. Mother and I moved to Germany; my brother, Motel, and his family came to America. After a couple years, we, too, made the move here. I was 18; I changed my name to Eva. Mother made a break with her sewing career working for a professional tailor in California. Eventually, she got enough money to open her own shop; she tried hiring me, but I was no good with sewing. I was more of an adventurer. It was during that time I met my father." I look up into Scott's eyes.

I take a deep breath. "My father is Lucifer–the fallen angel." Scott's eyes widen drastically, but he lets me continue. "I did some things for him–a few favors–and in return, he gave me a spell that would make me immortal. I was nineteen.

"Then World War I broke out; Mother worked to make and repair soldiers' uniforms, despite the high status she'd earned. I helped with the Red Cross, as a nurse on the battlefield. As a Nephilim–half-angel–I had similar abilities to the angels; when I became immortal, they grew stronger, and I gained new ones. One of my…powers is the ability to heal.

"Mother died a few years after the war; I inherited her house, the business, and part of the fortune. Of course, by then, many of the citizens in the town had begun to notice I hadn't aged in almost a decade. So I left; I sold the business and used the money to buy two other homes–one in Kansas, and one in Ohio. I would move every decade or so, once people started looking at me funny; I'd change my name and my appearance and cycle through my three homes. I've had a lot of aliases. My first move was to the Kansas house, where I became redheaded Alice; in the 30s, I moved to Ohio and changed my name to Dorothy. I was Ruth in California in the 40s, Robin in Kansas in the 50s, Kim in Ohio again the next decade, Ithaca when I moved back to California in 1874, and then Amanda in Kansas. I moved there about three years before meeting you."

"And what…happens? Do we get married?" His voice is barely above a whisper. He's afraid of the answer.

I stare at our entwined hands. His engagement ring glints accusingly at me. "It was the day we had the cake testing; the last time you saw me. I was kidnapped and tortured by demons for information. I…I held out for three days before they broke me. Then they let me go. When I got back to my house, you…" I can't bring myself to say it. Scott's death is the greatest burden on my conscience; my deepest regret.

"You must've come looking for me again," I continue. "There were demons watching my house. When I got there…everyone was dead. Even…even you. I don't know if it was the demons or the hunters, but by the time I found you–" my voice cracks.

I look up at him again. Tears roll down my cheeks freely. "Not a day goes by where I don't regret the decision I made. If I had just given Azazel what he wanted…" Scott reaches a hand up and brushes the tears from my cheeks.

"You can't blame yourself, Mandi."

"But I _do,_ Scott! You…died. I could've been there. I could have saved you." I hang my head. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"For bringing you into this. For not telling you sooner. For everything. I should never have let myself fall in love with you."

"Don't say that," he lifts my chin. "You know that's not true. We're meant to be together. It's–"

"Destiny," I finish. "Yeah. No one knows that more than I do."

"I love you, Amanda. Marcia, whatever your name is. I love you because you're _you_. I don't care that you're…what? A hundred twenty?"

I laugh. "Hundred twenty-four."

He makes a goofy face. "It doesn't matter who you were, who your parents were. You could be an alien for all I care!" He cups my face in his hands. "I love _you_." I break out crying again, but this time, they're joyful tears. I fold myself into his arms and release all the built-up tension I've harbored for the last three decades. For a moment, I can almost imagine we're back in 1987.

And then the moment breaks.

"Look, this is sickeningly adorable and all," Nyx moans, "but patching up your sappy relationship isn't getting us any closer to busting out of here."

I look up at her in annoyance. "Nyx, it's been thirty years since my wedding. Can I not have _five minutes_ with my fiancé?" Scott smiles at me lovingly.

"No," she replies, hands on her hips. "No you cannot. You know why? Because we're stuck in a box under the control of some psycho-ginger-Barbie and I'm _bloody fifteen again_!"

"What does she mean?" Scott asks, confused again.

"I'll give you the summary, since _someone_ –" I glare pointedly at Nyx "–is impatient. Nyx and Hazel are my sort-of half-sisters. Nyx is a child of the Greek god Hades, and Hazel is the daughter of Pluto, his Roman personality; he also happens to be Lucifer, depending on his mood. So that makes us technically related.

"Nyx has an awful habit of dying." She rolls her eyes. "Dad brings her back to life every time–for some reason, always at age fifteen.

"Earlier, I was abducted by a demon–again. That was the woman you saw when you got here. Her name is Abaddon. She's something called a Knight of Hell–one of the first, worst demons. She was an angel, but she was turned by Cain himself. She and my father's right-hand-man–Crowley–are fighting it out for control over the underworld's underground. And she wants my support. Nyx and Hazel tried to…rescue me, but got caught."

"Oi!" Nyx interrupts, "I was a _bit_ distracted."

I raise an eyebrow and stare at her for a couple seconds. "This is a lot to take in," Scott breathes.

I look at him and give his hand a squeeze. "I'll be honest, this isn't anything _close_ to how I imagined telling you. I was actually planning to do it a couple days after the cake testing," I added, looking down. Nyx and Hazel exchange glances; they don't think I see. But I do; I notice everything. I know what they're thinking: I'm not normally like this–at least, I haven't been for decades.

"Well, are we all having fun yet?" Abaddon's voice comes from behind me. All four of us leap to our feet and face her; I stand protectively in front of Scott. She takes notice with a smirk. "Don't worry little Nephilim. I won't hurt him. That is–as long as you give me what I want."

"You rule Hell?" I growl. "Never."

"Oh and I suppose that glorified salesman does a better job?"

"He at least tries to keep order–the way my father originally intended. Hell isn't supposed to be a place of chaos. Hell has rules, Abaddon–rules you seem to love to break. You take souls before their time–and without deals, might I add. You send demons out into the world simply to kill and wreak havoc."

"That's their purpose," she snarls.

"No it's not," I reply curtly. "Not pure chaos. They're meant to bring terror in certain times, in certain places, and to certain people. The _rules,_ Abaddon–centuries ago, each demon was assigned to a certain fear or terror. Or do you forget, Queen of Locusts?" She flinches. I smile. "That's right; I know who you were. I was raised Jewish. The demons aren't like your army of insects, Destroyer. They are not a ruthless killing machine. _That_ is why I cannot support your 'campaign'," I make air-quotes with my fingers. "If you controlled the ranks, you wouldn't rest until all of humanity is damned. 'Sheol and Abaddon are never full; so the eyes of man are never satisfied.'"

"You have no right to quote the Bible at me, Child of Hell," she hisses. "I was there. I was Cain's right hand. I took orders from Lucifer himself!"

"Wow," Nyx mutters, "dropping names like a Pachinko Machine."

Abaddon looks at Nyx for perhaps the first time since my genius sisters got themselves caught. Her appearance flickers, like a mirage. She fades back and forth between a busty redhead dressed in leather and an old, winged hag with leathery bat wings and oily black hair. "A _Greek_ ," she hisses. Her voice comes out strangled, like two people trying to speak into one microphone.

"Apollyon," she growls.

"Pah!" the figure spits. She now holds the resemblance of her Greek form stronger. "I thought you were all wiped out."

Nyx crosses her arms. "We survived." Apollyon's eyes flicker to Hazel.

"You're not Greek," she sneers. She leans forward slightly and draws in a breath through her nose. She recoils and hisses. "Roman. How did you three come across each other?"

"My old man is Hades," Nyx replies curtly. "Hers is Pluto."

Apollyon's lips draw back into a sneer. "Sisters."

"Oh, look, the old bat's got some brains."

Apollyon rolls her eyes. "As much as I'd love to continue bantering with you for comic relief, you are _not_ my main concern right now, child." She turns back to me and her appearance again becomes that of Abaddon.

"No," I say simply, crossing my arms.

"You may want to reconsider," she growls, snapping her fingers.

"Amanda," Scott says behind me. I turn. Abaddon's demon sidekick has his arm around Scott's shoulders, and a knife pressed against his throat.

"Let him go," I spit at Abaddon.

"Well, now, that would be the opposite of my plan, wouldn't it?" she smiles cruelly.

"Why, you–" Nyx starts to stride forward, but two more demons appear and grab each of my sisters by the arms.

"Not now, sweetie," Abaddon smiles. "the grown-ups are talking." Nyx opens her mouth to say something–probably to cuss the demoness out–but a strip of duct tape appears over her mouth. Her eyes spark angrily above it. Abaddon paces around me and saunters towards Scott. "Now how did an old maid like you end up soul mates with such a cutie?" With an ephemeral _snap_ , I unfurl one of my wings, blocking her path.

"Don't touch him," I growl. She turns her head and smirks.

"I don't need to." She reaches a manicured hand out and pushes my wing out of the way, continuing her orbit around Scott, the demon holding him, and me. "You know, your story is legendary. It's all Heaven and Hell talked about in the eighties. Well, besides little Sammy."

"What are you on about?"

She rolls her eyes. "You're _soul mates_ , babycakes. You two crossed paths and fell in love on Heaven's orders. Like a certain pair of ex-hunters I know. Oh and then poor little Scotty had to die," she makes a sarcastic pouty face. "Isn't that just _tragic_."

"Shut up," I snap. "You don't know what it was like."

"Oh but I _do_. I was there."

"You–"

"Abaddon," a voice snaps behind us. We all turn to see who it is. "Causing problems again are we? Didn't we talk about kidnapping people?"

Abaddon laughs once. "Crowley. You've got balls, showing up here. Outnumbered, might I add."

Crowley glances lazily at Abaddon's demons. "Yes. Deserters. Well, I assure you, they will be handled. Once I take care of you."

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

"You missed your appointment with your father. He sent me to find you. And would you look at the mess you've gotten yourself into, Princess."

I roll my eyes. "How many times do I have to tell you, Crowley, don't _call_ me that. It makes it sound like I'm _your_ daughter."

"You can thank me later," he replies. "Well?" he roars at the demons. "Release them. Your king commands you."

They stand still, glancing at each other. Abaddon laughs. "They don't follow you anymore, Crowley."

"Well. Then I guess they're against me." With a flash of silver, an angel blade drops out of his sleeve. In the blink of an eye, he stands behind the demon holding Scott and jabs the blade through his shoulders. The demon's eyes and skin flash red, and he crumples to the ground. A second later, Crowley dispatches the one holding Nyx. I run to Scott's side and pull him away from Abaddon, throwing myself between them and spreading my wings. Glancing around the room, I see that the third demon has disappeared. Nyx and Hazel join me, standing on either side.

"This isn't over," Abaddon hisses.

"It is for now," Crowley bites back.

Suddenly, we're standing in the dark field again; a slight reddish tint colors the sky to the East. The boys and Reyna are deep in tense conversation. When we appear, Reyna is the first to notice us, and she swears in Latin. Scott collapses to the ground as soon as we materialize. I crouch down next to him and drape my arm over his shoulders. "Breathe," I whisper to him.

"What the hell?" Dean shouts. "Crowley?"

"Hello boys," the demon responds casually. "I believe you've met my employer's offspring. If that's all you need," he looks down at me, "I believe I'll be going now." Before anyone has the chance to stop him, he puffs out.

"What's going on?" Castiel demands. "Who's this?"

I ignore them, focusing my attention on Scott. I rub his back until his breathing returns to normal. "Amanda?" he groans. "What was that?"

"That was demon travel. It's a bit like teleportation–via funnel."

"Amanda?" Dean says, confusion weighing his voice. "Cas said your name was Jane."

I turn my attention to them at last. "It was–well, for a couple weeks, anyway."

"Who are they?" Scott asks, looking up at the hunters and Reyna.

I sigh and help Scott to his feet. "Boys," I address the Winchesters, "this is Scott Collins. He's from the past– _my_ past–1887, to be exact. Abaddon thought it a good idea to bring him to the present to coerce me into joining her 'campaign,'" I make air-quotes with my fingers again. "Crowley showed up barely in time to get us out before anyone got killed. Scott, this is Sam and Dean Winchester and the angel Castiel, my uncle, of sorts. They're monster hunters."

"Winchester?" he asks, his brow creasing in confusion. "Isn't that the name of the family that used to live down the street from you? The house that burned down, right?"

The boys and I flinch in unison. "You…" Dean whispers, "you were there?" I wince again. Silence hangs deafeningly in the air.

Taking a deep breath, I look up into Dean's eyes. They're strikingly green. I feel a pain in my chest where my heart should be. "Yes. I was there that night. I moved to Kansas in the summer of '86, about four months before it happened. I didn't know who Azazel was at the time. He wasn't what brought me to Kansas. It was a coincidence. That night…" I sigh. "I felt his power; he was a strong demon. I traced the signal to your house, but…" I shake my head. "I was too late. All I could do was call the police. And Azazel disappeared. It wasn't until the spring of '87 that I met him. He captured and tortured me for information on the location to a sealed entrance to Hell."

"The Devil's Gate," Sam mutters distastefully.

"Yes. I helped Samuel Colt create it."

"You?"

"What? Is that so hard to believe?"

"Well, it's just…being–"

"Hellspawn?" I laugh. "Right. Because as the Heiress of Hell I need to detest humanity like my father, right?"

"Hey, guys," Hazel suddenly says, "sorry to interrupt, but…Nyx is gone."


	8. Chapter 8

**EIGHT - NYX**

I land with a thud on a cold, damp floor, and groan as I get up. _Seriously?_ I growl to myself. _Just because I can't stay dead doesn't mean I don't feel pain, people!_ I notice with a small relief that my weapons have returned.

"Hello, Melanie," a light voice says.

 _Oh no. Oh, gods of Olympus, no._ I look up in apprehension. "What do you want, stepmonster?" A small twitch at the corner of her mouth is the only indication that the ginger she-devil registered my insult. She grins at me with that sickeningly-sweet smile of hers. Like too much perfume.

"Oh, nothing much. Your father just gave me a little…present. And I'm making it your responsibility."

"And why the _dìyù_ would I do that, you _biǎo zi_?" I ask angrily.

She tilts her head and arches an eyebrow, her smile shifting into a scowl. "Well, smartass, you would be wise not to curse at your stepmother or I might just turn you into a daisy."

" _Fine!_ " I shout before she acts. "What's this _present_!?"

She smiles and snaps her fingers. There's a small burst of air and an overwhelming smell of daffodils. I expect to see a small box, or even perhaps a mewling monsterling in Persephone's hands.

Instead she holds a child.


	9. Chapter 9

**NINE**

"Where could she have gone?" Hazel asks.

"I don't know," I reply. "Any number of ephemeral beings could've intercepted Crowley's teleport and pulled her out."

"But who?"

"Could be someone who hates us." I shrug. "Or someone who hates us more."

"Why would someone take her?" Scott interjects.

We look at him. "There's probably a million reasons why someone would kidnap any one of us. After all, Abaddon just abducted _me_. Nyx is just another child of Hell. We apparently carry a lot of influence."

"Jez, can you locate her?" Hazel asks.

I shake my head. "I'm not a full-fledged angel. My perception isn't that strong. I may be tuned into angel radio, but she can't 'pray' to me."

"What about Castiel?"

I shake my head again. "Only if Nyx directly calls out to him. Even then, it might be tricky, with her being a demigod." I think for a moment. "I'll be right back." I teleport and return before anyone even registers what I'd said. With me is a giant slab of black stone.

"What the–" Dean blinks. "Where did you get that?"

"Ohio. It's a summoning stone." I reach down to my hip and find all my tools and weapons have returned. I detach the pouch from my belt and open it, removing a white piece of chalk. I kneel down on the stone. The obsidian slab already has things carved into it: a large circle and a couple generic summoning symbols. With the chalk, I add a few lines and draw a couple more symbols. "Now, this may not work, but–There." I stand up and wipe the dust off my hands. "He doesn't answer my calls. I usually have to take drastic measures." I light a match and toss it in the center of the circle. There's a puff of black smoke, and a teenage boy stands in front of me.

He has dark, coffee-brown skin, short-cut black hair, and deep eyes. He wears all black: a muscle tee, jeans, leather jacket, and combat boots. A single gold amulet dangles around his neck. When he sees me he scowls and crosses his arms. "Vanessa Dupont. It's been a while."

I smile. "Hello, Anubis."

"Vanessa?" Dean asks. I glance at him in annoyance.

"Don't talk to me about aliases, _Agent Banner_." Dean shrugs.

"It's been over twenty years," Anubis says impatiently. "What could you possibly want, _deshretu_?"

"Name calling, Anubis? Isn't that below you?" He continues to scowl at me. I sigh. "We need your help."

"Why would I help you?"

"Because I have you trapped in a binding rune and you can't leave unless I release you."

He looks down at the stone under his feet. "These symbols are Egyptian."

I shrug. "I like to understand the beings who might possibly want–and have _tried_ – to kill me. I prefer to have the upper hand."

"You've studied. That's more than I can say for _some_ of Hell's demigods."

"That's actually why you're here. Nyx has disappeared."

He cocks an eyebrow. "You know Melanie Lawless." It's not a question.

"Yes. She's my sister. We met after the Greek and Roman war with Gaea. We were mid-teleportation when she was redirected. We need to know where."

"Why do you think I'd be able to find her?"

"Because you're the Egyptian god of the dead. You can sense when someone dies."

" _Has_ she died?" he asks, with a slight worrying tone in his voice.

"Don't sound so distraught, zombie boy. She's alive. But she's been resurrected twice in the past few hours; I figured you'd be able to track her based on that."

He purses his lips. "And what do I get out of it?"

I sigh. "You immortals and your selfishness."

"What do you want in return?" Scott suddenly asks. Anubis directs his eyes at him and draws in a breath.

"I know you." His gaze shifts back and forth between Scott and me. "But that's impossible…" His eyes widen. "No. Oh _djet_ no." He mutters under his breath in Egyptian and glances at the sky. After a moment he sighs. "I'll help you."

"Really?" my eyes widen in surprise. "Why the sudden change of heart?"

He gives me a sideways glance. "Interesting choice of words," he whispers, barely audible. Then, louder, "Because you are going to run in to trouble in the near future, and you're going to need both your sisters by your side. I will help; but I cannot wield my power within this circle."

"Nice try, dog breath," I say, crossing my arms. "I've modified the spell. As long as your magic does not intend harm on anyone, you may wield it."

"Clever," Anubis says grudgingly. He closes his eyes and waves his hand in the air between us. Where his hand passes, the air shimmers darker, like black glass. A faded image comes into focus within the mirage. It's Nyx, sitting on a couch, with her head in her hands. Nothing else is visible, and unfortunately, the picture is black-and-white.

"She is in the Duat," Anubis mutters. "Sorry–correction: Hades."

Hazel and I exchange glances. "She's…home?" Hazel asks.

"It appears so," Anubis replies, and the mirage dissipates. "I've done my part. Now you do yours. Release me."

I hesitate, glancing at Scott. His presence here obviously rattles Anubis. Something in the back of my mind tells me that I should know why, but the idea quickly disappears. I take a step forward, lean down, and smudge the chalk lines.

With one final unsettling look at my fiancé, Anubis disappears.


	10. Chapter 10

**TEN - NYX**

I'll have you know: when I accepted my role as a demigod at Camp Half-Blood, it was _not_ to end up babysitting. Yet, here I was, playing house with yet another one of Father's illegal children. Persephone had just dumped him with me and left.

She hadn't even told me which of Father the child is descended from.

And apparently _he_ couldn't be bothered to tell me either.

I'm in the common room, sitting on one of the couches, while the runt sits on the floor, playing with my magic Stygian stone. The kid is maybe three years old. His hair is short and blond and he has heterochromatic eyes: one iris is red and orange, like fire, and the other is obsidian black. He sticks the stone in his mouth and chews on it.

"I don't even know your name," I say.

He turns his mismatched eyes on me. After a couple blinks, he holds the slobbery stone out to me. "Ba mhaith leat?" he says.

"Yeah. Didn't think so," I groan, dropping my head into my hands. "What has my life come to?" I mutter. "And of _course_ , the others are nowhere to be found."

Not a second later, there's a faint fluttering sound behind me. My head snaps up and I turn around. "Speak of the devil," I breathe.

"No," Jez smiles. "But close enough. Where'd you go, Nyx? What's–"

"Éan deas!" the little kid suddenly jumps up and runs over to Jez.

"Chto yebut, Nyx!?" she shrieks in Russian. "Why is there a _child_ here!?"

"It's, uh…" I rub the back of my neck. "Well…say hello to our little brother."

"You're _kidding_ ," she says, taking a step away from the boy, who continues to cling to her dress, his tiny, pudgy arm waving in the air towards her.

Hazel, of course, is the first one to warm up to the kid. She bends down to him. "What's his name?" she asks me.

"I don't know. Persephone just handed him over and disappeared. Said he was Dad's."

"Which…" Jez says slowly. "Is he…yours?"

I shrug. "She didn't tell me which one of us he's related to. I guess she gave him to me 'cause I was the only one she could kidnap. That, and she hates me."

Hazel picks the child up and sets him on her hip. "What are we supposed to do with him?" she asks. He continues to stare and reach for Jez.

"Éan deas," he repeats, a little more forcefully, swinging his arm in her direction. Suddenly, he makes a fist, and Jez jumps.

"What the–?" she turns and looks at him. His hand continues to hover by her shoulder. She looks from the child's face to his fist. "Holy hell weasel," she whispers. He smiles.

"Jez?" Hazel and I look at her in confusion. "What's wrong?" I ask.

Her eyes never leave the boy's face. Her voice shakes. "He can see them. He can see my wings."


	11. Chapter 11

**ELEVEN**

I stare at the child for only a few seconds; then my stupor snaps. Wrenching my feathers out of his hand (albeit gently enough not to cut him), I storm away.

"Great. This is just _great!_ " I snap angrily, to no one in particular. "First Scott, now _this_. Mozhet moya zhizn' poluchit' bol'she trakhal v odin den'!?" I shout. When I'm angry, I have a nasty habit of reverting to swearing in either Russian or Hebrew, my two native tongues. "Chert voz'mi," I growl.

"Jezebel!" Hazel's sharp tone is like a slap in the face. I look at her in shock. "I may not understand what you're saying, but for all we know, _he_ can," she nods at the boy.

 _Your brother_ , a nagging voice says in my head.

"Now for _Hell's sake_ , what are you going on about?" Nyx asks.

I press my fingers to my temples and sigh. "He can see and touch my wings."

"And?"

Hazel is the first to catch on. "Wait. You said that only immortal beings could do that."

I nod. "Angels, gods, demons, and…Nephilim." My sisters' eyes widen in shock as the meaning of what I said washes over them. They gawk at the child, who is still attempting to reach me, squirming in Hazel's arms.

"You mean…?" Nyx whispers.

"Yeah. He's Lucifer's. Probably sired just before his near-showdown with Michael." The words taste foul in my mouth. I sigh angrily. "And he didn't even have the decency to tell me himself."

The toddler squirms and pushes against Hazel, so she's forced to put him down before he falls. As soon as his tiny feet touch the black floor, he runs at me again. I freak and teleport across the room. He skitters to a stop where I had just stood. Confused for only a second, he turns and sees me, squeals with laughter, and dashes after me again. He puts on an extra burst of speed, and manages to slam into my legs and wrap his pudgy arms around me before I can teleport again.

"Éan deas!" he says happily, smiling up at me.

"Uh," I grunt. I awkwardly pat his head. "Good…boy."

Hazel laughs. "Good boy? Jez, have you ever dealt with a child before?"

"Yeah, when I was _sixteen._ Which was _over a hundred years ago_."

"Ask his name."

"We tried that."

"No. _I_ tried that. He's obviously imprinted on you; he probably recognized that you're related."

"So are you."

"Not really," Nyx interjects.

"Give it a try," Hazel repeats.

I stare down at the boy, whose eyes haven't left me. "Um…hi?" I say awkwardly. "I'm…Jezebel. What's your name?" He stares at me blankly, his smile dropping a bit.

"He might not speak English," Nyx offers helpfully.

 _Great_ , I think. "Vy govorite russkiy?" I ask awkwardly. No response. "Français?" Nothing. I sigh. I spend the next two minutes running through the other languages I speak: Hebrew, Bulgarian, Polish, Latin, German, and Spanish (excluding animal-speak, of course). I even try signing to him. The only response I get from that is him attempting to grab my waving hands. Nyx throws in some Mandarin, Mohawk, Greek, and Italian–also to no avail.

After five minutes, I'm frustrated and tired. I collapse on one of the couches; the boy promptly climbs up after me and plunks himself on my lap. I stare down at him. He interests himself with my leather pouch. "Why me?" I say quietly. The child continues to play with my tools. An idea occurs to me; a crazy, stupid idea. " _Who are you?_ " I ask in Enochian, the language of the angels. To my utter surprise, he looks up at me, with a curious expression. I let out a little laugh. " _Do you understand me?_ " He smiles.

"Jez?" Nyx asks. "What was that? What are you saying?"

A tiny smile tugs at my mouth. "He understands Enochian," I say.

"Can he speak it?" Hazel asks excitedly.

I shake my head. "He may be able to understand what I'm saying, but regular Nephilim can't speak the tongue. Even after gaining immortality, it took me decades to learn. But it's a start."

"Is there any other angel-mojo you can use to communicate with him?" Nyx asks.

"Unfortunately, no. A full-fledged angel would be able to read his past with a simple touch to the forehead, but I'm not that powerful."

"What about Castiel?"

I look at her in shock. "Really. You want to introduce him to Castiel? The angel who carved out my heart and called me an abomination because my father is an angel? You want to come forward and say, what? 'Hey, Cas, we know you hate me for being Lucifer's kid, but don't worry, he sired another one. Can you help us figure out who he is?' Yeah. I'm sure that'll go well."

The little boy taps my arm. I look down at him. "S-siúr," he says. He stumbles over the word a little, as if it's his first time saying it.

"Wait," Nyx says. "I've heard that word." Her brow creases in confusion. "It's…" she presses her fingers to her forehead. "Gaelic!" she jumps up. "He's Irish!"

My eyes widen. " _Are you from Ireland?_ " I ask him in Enochian. He laughs and claps.

"Huh," I breathe. "Well that's one mystery solved. Now we just need to figure out how to ask him his name."

"Who do we know that would be able−and willing−to help us?" Hazel asks. "That is, without killing any of us."

"I, for one, don't particularly care," Nyx suddenly stands and makes a move for the door. "It's your problem now, sis," she says to me.

"Oh, no you don't," I say, teleporting (awkwardly, with the boy in my arms) between her and the heavy black oak. "This is on all of us. Father gave him to our care."

" _Your_ father," she replies curtly.

"Who gave him to _your_ stepmother, who gave him to _you_. You're part of this, Nyx, whether you like it or not. If anyone has the right to be pissed about this it's me. So stop it with your _devil-may-care-but-I-don't_ attitude." I try to look menacing, but with a toddler on my hip (who is clinging to a lock of my hair and has his thumb in his mouth), I probably look ridiculous.

Nyx narrows her eyes and clenches her fists. We lock eyes and a staring contest ensues. Her irises crackle with black and purple sparks; mine glow red. After a tense moment, she lets out an exaggerated sigh and slouches in defeat. "Fine," she gripes. "How do _you_ suggest we go about figuring out who he is? None of our supernatural contacts are going to be willing to help. That is assuming we want anyone to know he exists."

A smile plays at the corner of my lips. "We won't be needing magic."

My sisters look at me in confusion. "What do you mean?" Hazel asks.

"Ladies, I believe it's time for you to learn about a wonderful technological advancement called forensics."


	12. Chapter 12

**TWELVE - NYX**

"You want to use a tiny green bug to figure out his identity?" Hazel stares blankly at Jez after she finishes the long-winded explanation of her plan. The entire time, she'd paced back and forth, still holding the runt on her hip. He hadn't seemed at all interested in what she was saying, nor does he seemed bothered by the constant motion of the woman holding him. He gnaws on a stiff piece of black leather. As Jez turns again, the dim light of the torches glints off it.

I almost laugh. He turned her studded hunting bracelet into a teething toy.

"What?" she looks at us in confusion. "No. Not _aphid._ AFIS; more specifically, _IAFIS_ , the _Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System._ It's the FBI and Interpol's fingerprint database. If we run Junior's prints through the system, we may figure out who he is. _Someone_ has to be looking for him. If there's a Missing Person's report out, AFIS will have it."

"How do you know all this?" I ask in bewilderment.

"You have your guilty pleasures, I have mine," she replies vaguely.

Realization dawns on me. "No _way_." I laugh. "I can't believe it. My sister is a closet crime show nerd. HA!"

She glares at me with a set jaw. "And you're obsessed with science fiction. At least _my_ shows are immediately realistic."

"Hey!" I bite back. "Space travel is an entirely reasonable−"

"Girls!" Hazel interjects. "We don't have time for a fandom war."

I blink. "Wow, Hazel," I smile. "Way to go on getting with the times. Pretty soon you'll be on tumblr and shipping your first OTP."

"I…I don't know what that means."

I pat her arm. "All in good time. Anyway," I turn my attention back to Jez, "how do you propose we do this?"

"Well, I can get to a forensics lab easy enough. And I should be able to work the tech. The only problem is making sure my search is untraceable."

"Why?"

"Well, if anyone _is_ looking for him, they'll receive notification that his prints had been run. And as you said before, we don't know if we _want_ him being found."

"Right."

Jez mutters something under her breath in Hebrew. "There're two people I know that could block the trace."

"I sense a but."

She sighs. "One is Sam Winchester."

"Right. That's an obvious _no_. And the other?"

"Charlie Bradbury. The boys' surrogate little sister."

"So…what you're saying is we either get help from a Winchester, a Winchester, or a Winchester?"

"Basically."

"You don't have a name you can pull out of your magical hat-of-many-contacts?"

"Unfortunately, no. Or, at least, none that wouldn't run off and tell some all-powerful deity of his existence, or try to exploit it for themselves. Nephilim are blemishes on Creation; we represent a rift in Order. There are some who would love to harness that power. You don't know how many have tried to kill me for it. And if any of them were to get their hands on a fledgling…" she lets the sentence hang and shakes her head. "I'll try to leave a convoluted trail. I'll teleport to the NCIS headquarters in Virginia. There's no avoiding someone finding out he's in America, but we can at least divert them from our actual location."

"We're in Hades," I argue. "We're technically in another dimension. How could anyone figure that one out?"

"If they're part of our world, it's entirely plausible."

"Ok, _Little Mermaid_. And what are you going to do with _him_?"

"He's staying here with you," she shifts the child and holds him out to me. "I'm going alone."

"Oh, _dìyù_ no," I snap. "You're not leaving me out of another one of your adventures. Hazel can take the kid. It's my turn to ride shotgun."

Jez glances over at our other sister. Hazel shrugs. "I've had enough excitement for one day. I'll stay here." She holds out her arms and takes the boy. He lets out a cry of protest and reaches for Jez.

"Éan deas," he whines.

"Ok," Jez says. "Step one: figure out who this little bugger is. Step two: buy an Irish-to-English dictionary." She places a hand on my shoulder and the room disappears.


	13. Chapter 13

**THIRTEEN - NYX**

"I thought you said we were going to Virginia," I say, staring at the brownstone in front of me in confusion.

"Detour," Jez replies, striding up the steps. I pad up after her.

"There's no doorknob."

"Aren't you observant," she mutters in reply. She presses her hand against the center of the door. After a moment, glowing red lines appear in the wood. They form a nose-up, stick-figure fish. The door swings inward silently. "Stay close and don't touch anything," she barks, stepping across the mantle. She strides over a painted demon trap and moves down the short entry hall. As I follow, I notice other sigils and symbols painted on the floor and walls.

"What is this place?" I ask.

"Safe house." We reach another door. This one she opens with a key, but a glowing symbol still appears. It's a two-ringed circle, with crossed double-ended arrows in the center and some weird squiggly snake-like things around the inside. When she steps through, her pace quickens. I have to almost jog to keep up.

"Where did you learn all this stuff?" She doesn't reply. "Well. Look at miss Chatty Cathy. What's wrong, sis? Sphynx got your tongue?"

"Stop talking. Or I'll make you sit outside." Past the second door is a normal-looking house. Jez approaches a staircase. We go down.

"Where are we?"

"No."

"Ok, that wasn't really a yes or no−Woah." My mouth hangs open. At the bottom of the steps is the most intricately designed door I've ever seen. It's circular−about five feet in diameter. The bulk of the door is obsidian. Some sort of black-and-green mineral and a shiny silvery-white metal fuse together like marble and wind across the black stone as delicate vines. Fist-sized rubies, cut to look like roses, are imbedded in the round slab. The vines spiral around the central design, which is embossed in the obsidian with the same shimmery metal: a downward-pointing triangle, with an X across the bottom point. The intersecting lines that form the point extend past the triangle and curl out. A large V lies across the bottom.

"What is _that_?" I breathe.

"Father's oldest Seal," she replies reverently. "It dates back to the fifteenth century. It is supposed to represent a chalice, a sign of Creation. The X stands for the physical realm; the triangle for water, and the V is the duality of all things. Light and dark; male and female; Yin and Yang; etc. It− _don't touch it!_ " She lunges out to grab my wrist before I can run my fingers over the design.

"Why? Does it summon Dad?"

She shakes her head. "That's what humans think. Yes, it invokes his power, but doesn't actually work to call him. I doubt he even knows when one is used. No; it acts as a gateway. Personally? I use it as my front door."

"So why can't I touch it?"

She rolls her eyes. "Because _this_ ," she points to the silver metal, "is an amalgam of Mercury and Cadmium. It's toxic. Well…to mortals anyway."

"Oh. What's the green stuff?"

"Malachite."

"What's it do?"

"It looks cool. Now shut up and let me concentrate." She pulls out her angel blade and draws the tip across her hand. Where the skin parts, blood and white light pour out. She places her palm against the Sigil. The white metal absorbs her blood and glows. There's a loud click from the door and it swings slowly outward. I stumble back, narrowly avoiding losing my nose. Jez leads the way inside. With a flourish of her still-bleeding hand, she announces, "Welcome to my Vault."


	14. Chapter 14

**FOURTEEN**

"Don't touch anything," I say to Nyx as I lead her inside. "The _last_ thing I need is for you to die and have someone trace you back here. I've managed to hide this bunker away from the world for decades. I'd like to keep it that way."

Of course, she doesn't listen.

"What's this?" she asks, reaching for a button on the nearest console.

"That," I say, grabbing her wrist and pulling her away, "launches my military-grade missiles. And they're currently not aimed, which means they could fly anywhere."

"What about this one?"

"That sends an electric shock through the entire foundation of this structure. I highly suggest _not_ doing that. Nyx," I say exasperatedly, "I said don't touch. Come on, we're here for a reason."

"Which is? _Oof!_ "

A shrill ringing noise fills my ears and I'm blinded by blaring red lights. I spin around to see Nyx leaning against the console, her hand on a button.

"NYX!"

"I tripped. Sorry."

"SORRY?" I screech. "YOU JUST PUT THE VAULT IN LOCK-DOWN!"

"No big, I'll just−" she presses the button again. Nothing happens. "Um…where's the off switch?"

"THERE IS NO OFF SWITCH!" I grab her harshly by the wrist and drag her behind me. "Come on!" I shout over the alarms. "We only have a minute until−"

The alarms stop. It's silent. I mutter a word that would have spoiled milk. "We have to go. NOW," I take off down one of the hallways, dragging my sister behind me.

"What's going on?" she pants, straining to keep up with my enhanced speed.

"No time!" I put on an extra burst of speed. Nyx stumbles and almost falls multiple times. We round a corner and collide into something, ending up in a heap on the floor.

"Amanda?" Scott's voice comes from the heavy mass lying across me. "What's wrong?"

"AAAARGH!" I scream and teleport all three of us. Suddenly, we're sprawled on another floor. I wriggle out from under Scott and leap to my feet. In a single bound, I cross the room and slam my fist into a blue button. There's a soft hissing noise and then a beep. Not two seconds later, a sound blares from the other side of the door−like a fog horn.

I heave a sigh of relief and collapse against the wall. If I'd had a heart, it'd be racing faster than a herd of wild mustangs.

"Ok…" Nyx says a bit slowly. "Now will you tell me what's going on? What's pretty boy doing here? Why did you flip out? What was that alarm and _where_ are we?" I look up through my eyelashes and glare at her.

"What _happened_ was you almost got both Scott and yourself killed. You activated Plan 22."

"What's that?"

"It's one of the Vault's defense programs. It's a purging algorithm. It closes and locks all the doors and then pumps the whole structure with cyanide gas. I built in this safe room just in case. _I_ am not affected by the gas, but you are. This room is air-tight and free from the purging."

"So…what do we do now?"

"You'd better get comfortable," I say through my teeth. "We're going to be here for a while."


	15. Chapter 15

**FIFTEEN**

"So, sister," I begin saying. We've moved to the small couch in the room. Scott and I sit. Nyx is perched on the coffee table. "It's your turn."

"I assure you I have _no_ idea what you're talking about."

"I've told my story. Now you give yours. Who _is_ Melanie Joy Lawless? Really?"

Nyx narrows her eyes at me. I stare back. Finally, she sighs. "If we're going to do this, I have to let you know two things first."

"Which are?"

"One, my life is no joy ride. Two…I kinda…lied to you."

"About?" my eyebrows stitch in confusion.

She sighs again. "My name."

"You're _not_ Melanie Joy Lawless?"

"Not…technically."

"What's your name then?"

She looks like she's in physical pain as she takes a deep breath and recites, "Melanie Anastasia Bianca Cora Dawn Eva Felicity Gwyneth Hanna Isabelle Joy Kate," she takes another breath, "Leslie Molly Natalie Octavia Penelope Quinn Rachel Stephanie Tina Ursula Veronica Willow Xandi Yaluta Zelda Lawless."

I blink. For once, I'm actually speechless. It's Scott who finds his voice first. "Is…is that a name for each letter of the alphabet?"

"My mother hated me."

"You sure you're not over-exaggerating?"

Nyx narrows her eyes. "She tried to feed me to a wolf when I was six."

I make an unladylike snort. "I admit, you've got me beat. The worst my mother did was try to marry me off to a 40-year-old butcher when I was 16."

"She did _what_?" Scott stares at me with wide eyes. "That's more than twice your age!"

"I said she _tried_." I pat his hand. "And I'm more than six times yours, _moya golubushka._ "

"Ugh," he presses his hand to his forehead. "I'm not sure if I'll ever get over the whole immortality thing." I squeeze his hand reassuringly, but I feel a pang in my chest.

I decided to change the subject. "So," I say to Nyx. "Wolves. That sounds…fun."

It's her turn to snort. "Hardly. She was malicious. If it wasn't for my…" she suddenly coughs. "My inherent battle skills, I would've died. And that was long before my annoying cycle of reincarnation."

I press my lips together. She had obviously been about to say something else, but something tells me that if I asked, I'd end up with fewer teeth in my mouth. I decide to let the matter go.

"What's that like, anyway?" Scott asks.

She scrunches her nose. "Unpleasant. First off, I actually experience the pain of death each time. And let me tell you, it doesn't get any easier. And I've died in almost every way known to man, beast, and other forms of being.

"Second, my father has my soul marked for express shipping. As soon as I bite it each time, I appear in front of him. No matter where he is. Do you know how embarrassing it is to appear while he's in council?" She shakes her head. "He seems to find it amusing. Anyway, once he's done chewing me out and/or ridiculing me, he resurrects me again. And every damn time my body has become a gangly fifteen-year-old again. It's like I'm starting at my last save point, and for _some reason_ that's when I got out of the Casino."

"So, he just…sends you back? Just like that? No scars? No bruises or broken bones?"

"Well I'm not… _exactly_ unmarked."

Scott and I blink. She groans. "Father likes to give me…souvenirs of my deaths." Our gazes remain unaltered. With a grudging sigh, she stands up from the table and shrugs off her leather jacket. Underneath it, she wears a black Green Day t-shirt. She drops the jacket on the table and rolls up her sleeves. Scott and I share a look of confusion as she swallows deeply and snaps her fingers. The air around her blurs and shimmers, almost like a mirage; it's as if someone poured water over a coat of fresh paint.

Suddenly, running up both arms and seemingly under her shirt are shadowy marks and shapes.

Tattoos.

Some are big, winding around her arms; others are no bigger than the pad of my thumb. A few are colored, but the rest are a grayish-black ink. Except, the ink isn't exactly…ink. It's more like shadows permanently cast onto her skin−the colors are dull, the edges faded. If I didn't know better, I'd say they were Nephilim Runes.

"Geez, Nyx," I breathe, "I knew you had some tattoos on your hands, but _this_?"

She rolls her eyes. "I told you. It's Father. This is his idea of humor. In return for fixing up my body, he gives me a Mark. Something to remember each death by. You've seen these," she holds her hands up, palms facing away from me. On the back of each hand are tattoos; but these ones seem different. Clearer. On the right hand are four red and black diamonds, and on the left, three yellow triangles. Each set of shapes is configured into a larger version of the same figure. "But I hide the rest under my jacket and the Mist. Each one represents the circumstances of a particular death," she states dryly.

"So what are the stories behind those?" Scott asks, nodding to her hands.

Nyx sits back down on the table. She leaves her jacket in a heap next to her. "These are actual ink." She shrugs. "I was in New York. I was bored. This one," she holds up her left hand, "is the Tri-Force. The Hero of Time always has it. The other is Harley Quinn's symbol 'cause she's a badass. I also have the word 'always' written on my ankle."

I lean forward to get a better look at some of the Marks. "How many?" I ask, bewildered. The ghostly marks are everywhere.

"Marks or deaths?" she asks seriously. "Because those are two completely different numbers."

"Deaths."

"349 now, thanks to Squirrel and Giraffe."

"Squirrel and Giraffe?" I give her a weird look.

She presses her fingers to her temples and sighs. "I've been spending too much time around Crowley. Don't ask."

"What are some ways you've…died?" Scott asks. I can tell he's seriously trying to understand the craziness that surrounds us.

"See this one?" Nyx points out the silhouetted shape of a mastiff on the inside of her left arm. "That was my first death. Hellhound, back in, oh…1991? Dad didn't appear for that one, so you can imagine my surprise when I wake up with blood all over my clothes, but no wounds, and people all around freaking out. 'Rabid dog attack,'" she makes air-quotes. "I panicked and ran off. I was still so unnerved, I didn't notice the car until its headlights were blinding me." She touches a car mark on her right arm.

"That looks like your sword," I say, pointing out a Mark on her forearm. Nyx's cheeks turn red.

"That's...uhh, one of my more embarrassing ones. I kinda…tripped and fell on my own sword." She rubs the back of her neck and looks away.

"Ouch."

"Yeah. I've gotten struck by lightning, bitten by a snake, eaten by a shark, drowned; I've been shot more times than I'd like to admit. Oh and I've also been killed by a coconut. That one was fun to explain to Father. Then there's this one," she pulls aside the collar of her t-shirt and reveals another Mark: an interwoven, five-pointed star, surrounded by tongues of fire.

"An anti-possession symbol?" I ask, bewildered.

"Yeah," she shifts her collar back in place. "Crowley's idea. Some of his chums got their claws into me. When I shadow-travel too much or use too much Hades-ish mojo, it acts up and either hurts me or prevents me from moving. Crowley thinks it's funny."

"What's that one?" Scott points to a bullet with a heart in the center, located on her right wrist. She snorts.

"That one's for friendly fire. I'm sure you remember, Jez?" she looks at me pointedly.

I feel my own cheeks heat up. "You mean…?"

"Yep."

Scott glances between the two of us. "What?"

I swallow. "Just after we met−maybe three months−Nyx decided to try to play a prank on us. Let's just say it didn't end well."

Nyx rolls her eyes. "You flung _three silver throwing knives_ into my chest."

" _You_ jump scared me."

"I didn't expect you to ninja-swipe me! Anyway, for that one, I asked Dad to leave me dead for a little bit. Teach them a lesson." She chuckles. "And scare the shit out of them."

Scott stares at her in unmasked horror, blinking. Nyx notices and presses her fingers to her lips. "Oops. Sorry. Forgot you were an 80s kid. Welcome to the 21st century. Regular words are swear words, swear words are everyday speech, and the internet controls the world."

"Nyx," I chide. Before I can say anything else, there's a loud hissing noise. It lasts about ten seconds before stopping abruptly. A heavy clang resonates from the bunker door. I sigh in relief. "Finally," I say, standing up. "So," I look down at my sister. "Who's ready to break into a government facility?"

She stands and slips her jacket back on with a smile. "I thought you'd never ask."


	16. Chapter 16

**SIXTEEN - NYX**

"Fancy place you've got here," I remark as we re-enter the main chamber. I lightly tap a couple of the lights and levers on her control panels. "Kinda old. Hey, didn't you say those Winchester boys had something like this?" I ask, turning around mid-stride to look back at Jez.

She nods. "The Men of Letters' bunker."

"Men of Letters," I say thoughtfully. I recognize the name instantly, of course, but I play it off. "Those were like old-timey hunters right?"

She snorts. "Hardly. Men of Letters were _intellectuals_. The closest they ever got to down-and-dirty with the monsters were when they were nose-deep in their dusty books. Which, might I add, were horribly limited. They preferred to leave the actual monster-slaying up to the _mongrel hunters_."

"And the Winchesters?" I ask, turning again to survey the atrium. "How'd they land a sweet gig like this?"

Jez's reply is a scream of pain. It's followed by a loud thump.

I whirl around to see Jez collapsed on the floor.

"Amanda!" Scott shouts and runs to her side. I stare down at her in bewilderment.

"Well…shit," I mutter to myself.

Scott looks up at me. "Is this really the time?" he shouts. "What's wrong with her?"

"I'm…I'm fine," she groans, propping herself up on her elbows with a wince.

"What happened?" Scott looks back at her, his expression once again concerned.

"I'm not sure." Scott helps her sit up. "I got a sudden pain in my chest. Then all my muscles gave out."

Thoughts run rampant through my head. My eyes widen as I connect the dots. I open my mouth to speak, but (in a rare instance) hold my tongue. _This may not be the right time_ , I think to myself with pursed lips, looking between my sister and her fiancé. I reach down and hold out my hand to help her to her feet. Once she's standing, she leans heavily against one of the consoles and presses her hand to her chest.

Suddenly my theory seems more logical.

"Alright," I say, hoping to distract them. I clap my hands together. "About our little…visitor."

"Right," Jez forces herself to stand and walks slowly across the atrium, back towards the exit. "I know a way we can get past the security and onto the base."

"I don't think that'll be necessary," I say, surveying the technology spread out before me. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.

"What?" she turns around. I saunter over to the center console, set against the wall. I run my fingers over the cold, old metal. I throw her a saucy smile over my shoulder.

"I can hack into the whatever-you-called-it from here."

"How?" she strides over to me. Her pain seems to have disappeared.

I gaze hungrily at all the controls. "You've kept the tech here modern," I say matter-of-fact.

"Yeah, why?"

"Oh, this'll be a breeze." I crack my knuckles and start tapping buttons, my fingers moving at machine speed. I was literally trained for this. "Just a few…more…got it!" A gray window opens up over the lines of code I'd been typing seconds before.

"You've got the prints?" I ask, holding my hand out. She reaches into the pouch on her hip and places a piece of paper into my palm.

"Scanner's there," she says, indicating a small screen on the console with a glass panel over it. I lift the clear cover and place the fingerprint on it. "Now we run it by the missing persons' reports." After a couple more clicks of the keyboard, the computer window livens up. Images of archived thumb prints start flashing across the screen; various points on both our print and the computer's files are highlighted in green.

"Now," I mutter, my fingers once again flying over the keyboard, "if we refine the search by region," I type in the words _United Kingdom_ , "and age…gender…there." The fingerprints have changed; they're smaller. Children. "And now we wait."

"How long?" Jez asks, her eyes on the flashing lines.

"It depends. It could be hours, or−" the computer beeps. "Or it could be minutes." We gaze up at the screen together.

"Morpheus Jordannicus McMann," we say together.

"From Elgenn, Scotland," Jez reads.

I shrug. "Ok so he's not Irish. I was close."

"It says he was reported missing by his neighbor after…" She draws in a breath.

"What?" I scan the report.

"After his mother was found dead in their home."

"What're you two going on about?" Scott asks from behind us. He moves to stand behind Jez, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder as he leans to look at the screen.

"Well," she says, "after I dropped you off here, Hazel and I returned to the underworld and were…surprised to find Nyx with a toddler."

Scott's eyes widen. "Yeah," I add. He looks at me. "Turns out good ol' Luci had another kid." I nod to the screen. "'Bout 3 years ago."

A shadow crosses over Jez's model-like features. "That would've been just after he was freed." Her face screws up in frustration. She still somehow manages to look gorgeous in a sort of pouty way. "Why, though?" she mutters to herself. She lightly pushes me away from the keyboard. "I need to find out more about his mother."

Her typing is considerably slower than mine, but still pretty efficient. A few more windows open up on the screen. One is a scan of a Scotland driver's license. A woman's picture smiles out at us. Another shows the same kind-faced woman, her eyes far wearier, holding our little troublemaker. The words "Have you seen this boy?" are printed across the top in bold red letters. A paragraph underneath the picture gives his description as well as details about his mother's death and his last known location. Among the other documents is a birth certificate.

"Siobhan McMann," Jez reads. _Shiv-AWN_. The name sounds strange, but somehow elegant. "22, unmarried."

"Makes sense," I shrug.

She continues. "She grew up in an orphanage after her parents and older sister were killed in a mafia-related home invasion. In and out of abusive foster homes." She makes a small hum. "Ran away at sixteen and got involved with the mafia herself." Jez navigates through the various documents, reading them so quickly, my eyes strain to keep up. "Then the mafia killed her fiancé." A sad frown mars her pretty features. She takes a deep breath. "She was nineteen."

Scott steps forward and wraps his arms around her waist comfortingly. Only I notice her tiny wince. "No wonder Father found her. He's drawn to cries of emptiness and despair," she sighs.

I scan the birth certificate still displayed on the screen. It's the boy's. "No father listed," I remark.

"There wouldn't be," Jez replies. "Father would have to put down his vessel's name, if he cared at all, and that could get…complicated, to say the least."

"Well," I say, slapping my hand on the console. "That's that sorted out. What crazy adventure do you have planned next, sis?"

She steps out of Scott's arms with an eye roll. Grabbing my wrist, she pulls my hand off the metal. "First off, let's try to avoid any more _security_ adventures, dearest sister." I hold my hands up and take a step away from the machinery. "I don't know," she looks at Scott and me in turn.

"Well," I say with a mischievous smile, "how about a tour?"


	17. Chapter 17

[Note from the author:]

Hey, guys. Sorry it's been so long since I updated. It was the last semester of my Senior year and things got pretty crazy. On top of school work, I had _three_ drama productions going on all at once (I'm down to one now) and I was working on getting my novel published. (The link is in my bio if you want to check it out.)

BUT I've got my nose off the grindstone now and I graduate this weekend! With my freer schedule, I'm going to try _really_ hard to keep writing. Tina (user AndNowImDeadAgain) and I have a _lot_ of ideas for the story so it's not ending anytime soon! Anyway I'll stop rambling and let you get on to why you're really here...

* * *

 **SEVENTEEN**

"You know, you should really up the security on the…well, the security," Nyx says off-handedly. She walks behind me, Scott on my right. I'd already given them the run-down on the observatory and the indoor garden (which utilizes a very complicated and _very_ expensive spell on the ceiling to let in sunlight from above). Now we make our way through one of the hallways to the next wing. "It _really_ shouldn't be that easy to trip the alarm."

"I haven't had visitors in a while." I toss back over my shoulder.

"How long is a while?" Scott asks.

I'm silent for a moment before muttering, "I haven't really had visitors at all."

"Oh."

"What's this room?" Nyx says behind us. I turn to see her studying a scanner on the wall. It's inlaid next to a large, metal door. She places her hand against it.

To absolutely no one's surprise, the panel flashes red and an automated voice says, " _Access denied._ "

"Oh, come now, don't be like that," she says to the scanner.

I let out a little chuckle and walk over to her. "This," I say, pressing my palm to the screen, "is one of my weapons storage units." The panel beeps and the door opens with a loud cranking noise. Strip lights flicker on, running along the floor and ceiling. They reveal rows of black grate shelves. My two companions step tentatively through. Nyx starts down the first aisle; Scott stops in the center walkway and gazes around. "Don't touch anything," I say to Nyx for the third time since we arrived; her hand is outstretched towards a blade hanging on the rack. I stride over to her. "This entire unit's security is rigged to touch; unless I shut it off, only _I_ can handle the weapons."

"How'd you manage that?" she breathes, staring in wonder at the weapons set temptingly in front of her.

I give her a coy smile. "I can't be giving all of my secrets away in one day, now can I?"

Nyx pouts sarcastically. I roll my eyes and elbow her jokingly; the motion causes the pain in my chest to flare again. I press my hand to my sternum. Nyx glances at me out of the corner of her eye; I can tell she's worried. I change the subject. "Come on, I've got something I think you'll enjoy."

We all exit the storage room and I reset the security on the door. Nyx's earlier words replay in my head. I'd been completely stupid when I'd upgraded the console and the Vault's system. And I'd almost gotten my sister and fiancé killed.

Again.

"Here we are," I make a grand gesture around the room we'd entered. Nyx and Scott crane their necks back and drop their jaws. The library looks like it came straight out of _Beauty and the Beast_. It's two levels, with shelves shooting straight up to the ceiling. Elegant rolling ladders are affixed to them. The whole room has a gothic-meets-modern feel. Some shelves hold papyrus and animal-hide scrolls while others contain decade-old hardback novels. Plush-back chairs and bean bags are arranged around the open spaces and crystal chandeliers dangle from the ceiling, though I've replaced the candles with custom lights that don't damage my older and much more sensitive volumes. Some of the items I have in my collection are as old as the gods. In fact, a few were written _by_ the gods. (Let's just say Apollo wasn't _always_ a horrible poet).

"Holy shit," Nyx mutters.

"Not exactly the words I'd use," Scott breaths, "but yeah. Woah."

I can't keep the smile off my face as I run my hand along the spines of the books closest to us. I sigh. "Mother always chided me for reading. I don't think she ever understood what's so…enticing about books. The endless possibilities, the wondrous worlds. The vast pools of knowledge. Sometimes I wish I could read for centuries." I probably could, considering I never had to sleep or eat. I snort. "But that's what Metatron did and look where _that_ got us." I roll my eyes.

"Metatron?" Scott tears his eyes away from the towering bookshelves and looks at me, confused for the umpteenth time today.

"One of the oldest angels. The _Scribe of God_ ," I announce sarcastically. "He apparently transcribed the Creation. He's a real dickhead, though. Disappeared for eons and then convinced Castiel to help him with a spell that cast all the other angels out of Heaven." I clenched my jaw. "He used _my_ heart to do it."

"Your…heart?"

I wince. "Yeah. A couple years ago, I was undercover as a waitress named Jane. Cas and _Metaturd_ showed up and tried to kill me. Carved my heart out and left me to die. Thanks to my father's gift of immortality, that didn't happen. But now…" I tap my left collarbone, "completely hollow. I technically classify as a zombie. Guess I should be eating brains." I jokingly hold my arms out and limp towards Nyx, making zombie-like groans. She laughs. I stop when I see Scott's face. He knows me better than anyone. He can see through my sarcasm and joking behavior, a defensive mechanism I'd developed as a way to cope with Scott's death. He reaches out and pulls me close to him.

I fight the urge to break into tears. His gentle touch is something that I hadn't felt for over 30 years. I hadn't realized just how much I missed him. It's strange, the things you take for granted.

I feel the crushing pain in my chest again–right in the cavity where my heart should be. I feel like I'm going to be sick. I push away from Scott. "We should probably get back home. Hazel will be wondering where we are."

"Right, but can we get lunch first?" Nyx replies. "Multiple kidnappings make me hungry."

"Of course. I'm not _that_ heartless." My badly attempted joke makes my sister chuckle. It only makes me feel worse.


	18. Chapter 18

**EIGHTEEN - NYX**

"How does this work, anyway?" I stare skeptically at the wall. I hadn't noticed when we'd first walked into Jez's Vault, but the massive door had disappeared as soon as we'd entered. The only sign that it was once there is the Sigil, which is etched into the bricks. "Is _this_ one toxic too?"

"No," Jez replies. "I don't need as much security from the inside." She once again cuts the palm of her hand. Naturally, there's no sign of the previous wound. Just as she had before, she presses the glowing cut to the Sigil and it shimmers red. "I told you that the Sigil acts as a portal; it taps into Father's reality-manipulation abilities to create a jump in space. The door is just for show, really."

As if on cue, the bricks in front of us suddenly become obstructed by a large, wavy circle, almost like a sideways pool. I've seen enough in my time to know it's a portal.

"This portal is the only way into the Vault–even for me. It's warded against any kind of teleportation," Jez says. "In or out."

"And the…blood?" Scott asks warily.

"I wound a complicated spell into the Sigil. It can only be opened by Nephilim blood–a combination of grace and hemoglobin. Until now, I was the only one…"

"Speaking of," I chime in, "we should probably stop by home and get Hazel and the kid."

"He has a name, Nyx."

"Yeah, but it's so… _The Matrix_. I mean, Morpheus? Really?" My sister stares pointedly at me. I throw up my hands. " _Fine_."

"You're right, though," Jez goes on. "Hazel and…Morpheus need to eat, too."

"Alright, then," I clap my hands together. "Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to Hell we go."

"It's just…" Jez trails off and looks at Scott. "Hell isn't exactly…friendly to mortals. That's why I brought him here earlier, when we were looking for you."

"Right… Well, how's this? I'll go get the others, and we'll meet you two on the surface."

"Alright." We step through the portal.

* * *

Retrieving my other siblings was going to prove easier said than done. As soon as I materialize from the shadows, I almost get my head taken off.

By a flying couch.

"Holy _fuck_!" I scream, dropping to the floor and rolling. If it wasn't for my training, I would have had 'death by couch' on my resume.

 _That_ one would have been fun to explain to Father…

"Nyx, oh, thank Jupiter." I turn to see Hazel crouched in the corner behind a large (though empty) planter. Her hair is even more frazzled than normal.

"What the hell is going on?"

"It's…him. The kid. He's a maniac!"

I grunt. "Well, he _is_ half-Luci. What were you two doing?"

"It started with a harmless game of hide-and-seek. But…it seems that he may have inherited some of Lucifer's powers."

"Meaning?"

"He's invisible. Or, at least, he _can_ be, sporadically. I don't think he can hold it for long. But he's also _really_ strong."

"Well. That explains the couch. Don't worry," I turn to observe the room, "I'll find him."

"How?"

I smile. I already have. "You can't hide an aura." With a flick of my wrist, I throw my Stygian stone towards Morpheus. I hadn't noticed when I met him, but his aura is similar to Jez's. Granted, I hadn't been _focusing_ on his aura. Hey, it's not something I can do full time! It's like…looking at a second layer of reality. When I peer into the spiritual realm like that, it takes its toll. Plus, it's disorientating as hell.

My magic stone turns into a black iron cage–or rather, a large, black…basket? I don't know how to describe it. It lands over the kid, effectively holding him down.

"What was that?" Hazel comes out from her hiding place. "How did you do…that?" She points at the trap.

"My Stygian stone. It morphs. Hey!" Hazel jumps at my sudden interjection. "It morphed! To trap _Morpheus!_ " My pun (if it can be considered that) makes me burst out laughing. I don't think Hazel gets it.

"Morpheus?"

"That's his name." I stroll over to my iron cage and lean against it. "I know you're in there, buddy. You can drop the Houdini act." Whether he actually understood me, or I timed it perfectly, he appears almost like a mirage. It reminds me of the Mist, strangely enough. _Hm,_ I think, _I wonder…_ I shake my head. That's a thought for another time. Morpheus looks up at me with his red and black eyes.

"You sure he can't…lift that?" Hazel says, coming up behind me.

"Nah. I've got it secured." I tap my temple with my finger. The stone's properties are controlled telepathically. It knows exactly what I want.

"Siúr!" Morpheus exclaims. He pounds his fists against his confinement. "Siúr!"

"He's been shouting that word since you left."

"It means sister…though, it's strange." I'm talking more to myself.

"How so?"

"Siúr is Irish. Morpheus is from Scotland."

"What about his mom?"

"Her name is–was–Siobhan." At the mention of his mother's name, Morpheus looks at me. _Smart kid_.

"Siobhan is an Irish name. Perhaps his mom moved to Scotland from Ireland?"

"Could be. Regardless," I clap my hands together, "I'm here to pick you guys up. We're going to lunch." I look down at the kid. "So…Morpheus. Wow that is a mouthful. You don't look old enough to be called _Morpheus_. How 'bout I call you…Morphie?"

He smiles.


	19. Chapter 19

**NINETEEN**

Something was wrong.

Adrenaline courses through my body. The world spins around me, my vision blurring in and out of focus. Every now and then I see…things around me. Ghostly visions of memories long forgotten–or blocked. I hear screams, echoing through my mind. Voices swim in my head; I feel cold hands grabbing at me and I scramble to get away.

One voice calls out over the rest, sounding somewhat clearer. "Amanda!"

I blink, refocusing on my surroundings. A familiar, worried face stares back at me. "S-Scott? Where…where am I?"

"We're on our way to lunch."

"Lunch…?" I become aware that I'm standing. My head feels woozy; I lean heavily on Scott. "But we…we were just at the bakery."

"The bakery? Amanda, we were just in your secret bunker. Nyx went to–"

"The bunker? How do you know about…? Who's…Nyx?" I feel the darkness weighing me down again. My knees buckle and I hit the concrete.

"Someone call the police!" Scott's voice sounds a million miles away.

My vision is rimmed with black; an ever-shrinking circle. But, suddenly, my sight is awash in gold light. I strain to see its source. A figure steps into the glow…a teenager. He has thick, sandy hair, lit aflame by the luminescence around him. His blue eyes sparkle mischievously, paired with a goofy smile, but I can see a hardness in his demeanor. The light cascades around him like wings.

The boy kneels beside me, worry pressing his eyebrows and lips together. I know he is looking beyond my physical appearance. He places a finger against my forehead. "Yikes, cuz. You're not doin' too hot."

I squint as I look at him. "Reaper trainees just keep getting younger and younger," I cough.

"I'm older than I look," he winks. "And I'm not here to take your soul."

"Who are you, then?"

He smirks, raising an eyebrow. Something about him seems familiar; I can't put my finger on it. "I'm your guardian angel."

"Bull shit," I spit. "People like me don't _get_ guardian angels."

"People like you, huh?" he mutters. I hear muted voices around me. The boy begins to fade from view. "Woah woah, hang in there!" He grips my shoulders. His voice is heavy; it clashes with his jovial features. "You're not going to last long enough for them to fix you…" he says under his breath.

"Fix…? What are you–?"

"No, don't talk," he presses a finger to my lips. "You'll only drain your energy more. Give me a second." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out what looks like a white pen. "Oh, forgive me, Father," he mumbles. He grabs my arm and presses the weird pen to my skin. I cry out as I feel a searing pain flare up my forearm. But my vision begins to return, along with some focus and feeling in my limbs.

I'm suddenly aware of someone screaming.

"Let me through!" I feel like I should recognize the voice. "That's my sister!" A shadow moves into my view, accompanied by the feeling of more hands on my arms. The glowing boy stands up abruptly, stepping back as far as the crowd will allow him.

 _Wait…crowd?_ I blink. The shadow focuses into a face. A memory presses in my mind; something I _should_ know, but don't.

I gaze up at the girl hunched over me. "You…you look like him."

"Who?"

"The…the sun boy."

"Scott, what is she talking about?"

"I don't know. She's been talking to herself–she's not making any sense."

I look around, but the strange teenager is nowhere in sight. "He's…gone."

"Did he say who he was?"

"He…he called himself my guardian angel. Wait…I don't…" Spots danced across my vision. I felt like I was sinking into the bottom of the ocean.

"Don't you leave me, Jezebel," the girl's voice was angry, but it broke with the sound of coming tears. Her face is swallowed up by shadows.

"Who…who's Jezebel?"


	20. Chapter 20

Author's Note: Hey, everyone, sorry I've been AWOL for so long... I started college this year and that's taken up most of my time, patience, and sanity. I have a lot of things I want to work on outside of school, such as this story, a book I'm writing, and personal drawing, but I have barely managed to Adult. I have no plans to abandon this story, and my coauthor and I have a LOT planned for the future of the characters. I haven't forgotten you, I promise. Thanks for sticking around with me and stay tuned!

* * *

 **TWENTY - NYX**

My voice erupts from my chest in a loud growl. My sister stares up at me with an intense look of confusion, but I can tell she can't see _me_. It's almost like there's a dense pane of frosted glass between us.

"Don't die on me," I hiss. "Don't you _fucking dare_. I lost one sibling before. Don't put me through that again." Memories flash behind my eyes, still so raw in my mind, and so like what's currently happening, that I almost feel like I'm there–back in time, all those years ago, when… A tear rolls down my cheek; I wipe it harshly away. My voice quivers when I speak again. "Don't die, damn it."

Jez's eyes drag over to Scott; a faint spark flashes in her expression, a fragment of recognition. She lifts a shaky arm toward him, her hand reaching for his face, but it drops weakly onto the ground after a moment; her whole body shudders. Her fiancé grips her fingers in his own, bringing them up to meet his cheek. She smiles faintly. "There's still… so much to do before the wedding," she mumbles. Her face drops suddenly, her eyebrows tightening for a moment. "Don't we have the cake testing today?"

"No, sweetheart," he replies with a strained voice, "we already had the appointment with the confectioner. We were deciding between the chocolate hazelnut and the red velvet, remember?" She nods lightly with her eyes closed. Then she falls limp.

My fingers press against the skin under her jaw, shaking when I find no pulse. I blink, almost slapping myself. _Of_ course _she has no pulse, you idiot. She doesn't have a heart–or the need for blood flow._ Which means there's no immediate way to know if she's ok. A faint energy buzzes in my mind, making my head pulse; this time, I _do_ slam my palm into my forehead. _You're a child of Hades, for the gods' sake. If she_ is _dead, you'd know._ I will my vision to dip into the layer of reality beneath ours. Her life force clings to her like a second skin–that same deep red, crackling aura I saw surrounding Morpheus. I notice tiny bursts of color within the dark nimbus– _something to look into later_ , I think; the color seems to darken towards her heart, becoming such a heavy tone of red that it's almost black–an abyss that I suspect has to do with more than just her missing heart. But something in the aura draws my attention–a weird fuzziness near her head, as if the energy is…confused. I sigh in relief. Not dead. _Not physically,_ my brain points out, _but if we don't hurry, whatever's going on in her head might render her beyond help._

I glance up at the crowd that has gathered around us. I don't bother pulling my mind out of the Duat. By now, I assume, someone has called an ambulance; the last thing I want is for a doctor to show up and pronounce her dead. The humans wouldn't understand. They never do.

"Excuse us!" an accented voice yells through the crowd. "Everyone, clear out!" The mass of bodies parts, and two figures rush forward, kneeling beside us. "What happened?" The voice belongs to a man; I barely glance at his face.

"We were walking along the promenade," Scott says, "when she suddenly collapsed. I–I think she hit her head or something; she isn't making sense."

"What kind of nonsense?"

He shakes his head. "She didn't remember–" I place my hand on his arm, giving Scott a careful look. We couldn't tell this random guy that the comatose woman sprawled on the ground had seemingly forgotten 30 years of memories. Scott swallows. "She didn't remember going out to lunch today. And she was… muttering to herself, staring off into space.

The older man nods pensively. His partner, a young woman, lifts her voice for the first time since their arrival. "Is she going to be ok?" I barely look at them, glancing just enough to see if their auras held malice.

He doesn't reply, except to stretch his hand over her forehead; he holds his fingers close together, his other fingers pressed against his right wrist. My ears buzz; I almost feel like I'm about to pass out alongside my sister. I shouldn't have remained between planes this long; I can feel my energy straining. But I don't care.

The man draws his hands back. "We don't have much time," he says quietly. "We have to get her stabilized _now_." He looks to Scott. "Can you carry her?" Scott nods, carefully sliding his hands under Jez's shoulders and knees. I notice with a pang in my chest that their auras connect–a pulsing, white-gold thread of power tethering them to each other. The man pulls a small folded wallet from his pocket, opening it and holding it out at the throng of oglers. "We'll take it from here, folks; you can all carry on with what you were doing."

Perhaps I'm just delirious, but I swear the paper inside the wallet is blank. As the crowd disperses, I catch sight of another person rushing towards us, a toddler bouncing on her hip. Two familiar auras–one gold, one red. Her eyes are wild as she takes in our strange group. "Nyx, what in Jupiter's name happened?"

"Hazel," I blink. The world around me blurs back into focus. I'd almost forgotten that she and Morpheus had been with me. As soon as we'd arrived, I'd instantly sensed something was wrong; I'd gone sprinting down the street, leaving my other siblings behind. "Jez… she–"

"No time for catching up," the man interrupts me, pushing between us and walking briskly down the boulevard. Scott follows, Jez in his arms. I finally place the stranger's accent–English. "Unless you want more than your sister's sanity crumbling, I insist you come with me. Now."

I glance at Hazel, who shrugs one shoulder. We turn and hurry after the others. As we turn a corner onto a narrow side street, Hazel asks the man, "What kind of doctor are you?"

But I know the answer; something tells me in the back of my mind that I'd already known–I just hadn't been willing to accept it. I come to a halt on the cobblestone. "You have _got_ to be kidding me…" I groan, staring at the familiar object in the alleyway. The darn thing appears every so often in my dreams. It's just as I remember. It's a simple thing, really.

Just a big, blue box.

Everything is just as I remember it, save for the trench coat strewn over one of the seats. It's as if no time has passed. That's how it always felt, with him. But it isn't him, I realize with a frown, not anymore.

A startled gasp sounds behind me. I turn to see Hazel, still gripping Morpheus, staring around her at the impossible room. "It's…"

"I know," the young woman smiles. I realize I hadn't gotten a good look at her before. She has shoulder-length blonde hair, brown eyes, and full lips. The mischievous glint in her eyes and the spring in her step tells me that she's used to this chamber–and all the weirdness that it brings.

"This way," her companion says, leading Scott across the domed room and through a door. "We have to get her stabilized before it's too late."

"Too late for what?" I ask, hurrying after them. Before, I'd been worrying over a few possibilities of why this had happened. Now, with _him_ here, the number shot into the hundreds. He doesn't answer immediately; instead, he leads the couple into a room with a single metal table. Scattered around the room are various machines, wires, tubes, and instruments–some of which, I'd wager, are illegal almost everywhere, and some which have yet to be invented. Scott lays Jez on the bed without a question; I'm not sure if he's even noticed our surroundings. The brown haired man instantly starts grabbing some of the strange tools, strapping something to Jez's arm and putting another on her forehead. He pulls something from his pocket, holding it over her.

I dash forward and grab his hand. "You're not doing _anything_ to her until you talk," I growled in his face. "I asked you a question."

His voice is low, quick, when he responds. "Oh, I think you know what the answer is, Melanie Joy." My heart drops at the name. "I think you've known for a while; you just don't want to admit it to yourself."

I glare at him, the last defense I have, but my shaking hand gives me away. He looks intently into my eyes. "If you don't let go," he says slowly, "I can't help her."

I release his wrist, but I don't retreat from the table. "I see you haven't changed a bit since I last saw you," the man says, returning to his urgent work. He looks to be in his late twenties, but I know looks can be deceiving.

"I see you have, _Doctor_ ," I reply curtly. "What are you doing in San Francisco? I assume it's _not_ for afternoon tea."

"Well…" he drawls. I snarl at him. His face drops again. "No. Not exactly."

"You wouldn't be here if this was just a regular coma," I say more to myself than the man. I force myself to steady my breathing. "This isn't amnesia… is it?" I look at him. He pauses long enough to gaze back at me; his eyes answer me before his mouth does.

"Her timeline is collapsing. We came here because the TARDIS registered a…blip."

"A _blip_?"

"A crack in the fabric of time–an abnormality that, if left unchecked, would cause a devastating ripple across reality. _All_ realities. If we don't fix it, the effects are going to rock the cosmos."

My heartbeat quickens. "You're talking about a fixed point."

The Doctor nods solemnly. "Something happened–something that changed the written course of her history. And that's affecting not only your sister–but all of us."

My pulse is now so fast, so loud, it's a wonder the whole universe doesn't pound along with it. The thought that had been eating away in the back of my mind now springs forward. Jez's collapse in her bunker… My head rises, slowly, to look at Scott. I can see a hundred questions in his eyes, unformed on his lips. But what he says isn't a question.

"It's my fault."


End file.
